Sherlock 100
by Nova-chan
Summary: Me filling the Sherlock 100 table on Livejournal. Rating will fluctuate.. Chap 42 and 43: Sherlock comes home to find John packing. Chap 44-46: Mycroft has suffered a brain injury; Sherlock puts his life on hold to care for him.
1. Circle gets the square

If John thought Sherlock's hands were masterfully pleasant, and the greatest orgasm tools he'd ever come across, he was in for quite a shock when the detective pulled out his little sex kit full of gadgets and toys. Including, one silver bullet attached to a wire and a remote.  
John lay there, watching Sherlock carefully set out his tools as he prepared for the next bit of play. John was already sweating and light-headed from Sherlock's ministrations moments earlier, but now he was very much curious about what the man was planning for him next.

Sherlock grinned an evil, cat-like smile as he lunged forward with the silver bullet. John gripped the bed sheets lightly as he felt Sherlock prodding and examining his lower half. Sherlock moved John's legs a little further apart, and began to shift the bullet, slicked with lube, inside of John. He carefully positioned the device as John began to stroke his erection absently.

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted as he found what he was looking for, the position given away by John's little gasp as he felt something inside of him _react_.  
_  
Snick.  
_  
John felt it. It was like warmth and tingling and just _oh god yes, yes this_! He threw his head back as the little machine did its faithful work, eliciting feelings that he'd never quite achieved before. Sherlock was very diligently watching his device, watching John's face and his body moving around on the bed. John grabbed for Sherlock's shoulder, trying to bring the man on top of him, to kiss at his neck, to put a fist into his hair, but Sherlock leaned back, just out of John's grasp with a teasing smile.

John fell back against the bed, the denial frustrating his mouth and his fingers. He wanted to let go of some of the tension, to have it drip out of his body and do nasty things to Sherlock, but he was refused. Instead, he gripped the pillow at his side with one hand and curled his toes into the mattress, while his other hand was busy curling around his hard cock.

_Snick. _And now Sherlock was moving the bullet. Around and around inside of John, contacting different spots, and always coming back to rest against his prostrate for a tantalizing few moments before pulling back. Round and round back and forth until John thought that he would go insane.

"Shit, oh shit!" John cried. "Nononono, too much too much, Sherlock Sherlock, oh my god!"

John had to let go of his erection, unable to stand any more stimulation than he was getting. That's when Sherlock's idle hand began to stroke swooshing lines across his belly. John swatted him away, scrunching his eyes closed against the onslaught of pleasure as it built more and more, nearly unbearable.

Now Sherlock was on top of him, sucking at his neck, biting at his ear, one hand caressing the side of his face.

With an almighty bellow, John came in hot white streaks of pain pleasure pain pleasure pleasure pleasure pleasure pleasure.

He lay back gasping on the bed. Sherlock kissed him once and then rolled over nimbly to lay at his side.

Once John had managed to drift away from the misty world of post-orgasm, he turned to Sherlock with a look of amazement. Before he could say anything at all, Sherlock beat him to it. "My turn. Blindfold, ball gag, under-the-bed restraints."


	2. Tasty

The door was _supposed _to be locked. That was essential to the plan of hiding away and devouring an entire box of assorted chocolates and letting the world drift away without consequence.

But there were always consequences when Mycroft was trying to be secretive about his little indulgences. Trying to run the world and having privacy never went together. Neither did his desire for privacy and having Sherlock for a brother.

Mycroft didn't expect any interruption, obviously, or he wouldn't have been laid out like a dying, beached whale trying to lick sustenance from its flippers. But of course, _of course, _Sherlock chose that exact moment to _need _something, for the first time since he'd been six and Mycroft had gotten him a book on Spanish poisons.

So, that was Mycroft's mortifying fate: lying on his back in the middle of the floor, his tie loosened and his shirt unbuttoned, with paper wrappers strewn around like he'd just lost all his sense, chocolate on his face and fingers, humming and moaning as he ate delicate morsels and then Sherlock walked in. No knocking, no sound as he picked the lock. Just his presence, suddenly. It took Mycroft a full five seconds to realize he was still moaning and to stop it.

Sherlock stood over him, his thought process evident to Mycroft: _I want to leave, I want to leave, God I want to leave, you're disgusting, but I need something dammit._

Mycroft cleared his throat and deliberated between sitting up to wipe the dignity off his face, and pressing the small trigger on his wristwatch that would summon five strong security men who would remove Sherlock from the building in fifteen seconds.

He chose neither. "May I help you?" he wondered, casually, still lying on the ground.

Sherlock verbally ignored Mycroft's chocolate binge on the floor. "I'm applying for a job—for a case—and I need a solid reference from my previous employer, which is you."

"What's the job?" asked Mycroft, feigning polite interest while his mind was being overtaken with a singular thought: there was one chocolate left in the box, and it wanted to be in Mycroft.

"Shipping management for an exporter," Sherlock answered. "So, clearly, my last job with you was overseeing warehouse administration."

"You couldn't have phoned me about this?" It was orange crème-filled. So soft in the center, made of beauty.

"Oh, I'm sorry, have I caught you at a bad time?" Sherlock said in a gracefully condescending tone.

"Not really. I do so enjoy our visits, as you well know, but a little forewarning goes a long way, Sherlock." Death by chocolate. That's what Mycroft chose. And in his position of authority in the world, it was entirely feasible to have this final request granted him. The last chocolate had been bitter…he needed the sweetness of the orange crème.

"Yes, a lesson I will never forget," said Sherlock. "Expect a call from a Mr. Allen—"

Sherlock couldn't continue, as Mycroft had practically lunged at the yellow box beside him, ripping the last chocolate free of its casing before placing it gingerly between his teeth and saying "Urrrrrrglllennnn."

Mycroft had his chocolate coma in peace as Sherlock turned tail and ran before Mycroft started to think that he too was some kind of chocolate sweet.


	3. 5 times Sherlock Holmes fainted

...1.

"John, it's happened again."

John blinked. "What's happened?"

There was a pause over the phone. "Sherlock has fainted again," said Lestrade.

"Again?" John wondered. It was no surprise that the man had fallen out, but it was the first time John had heard of such an occurrence.

"You've never seen him go down?" Lestrade asked, an inappropriate hint of mirth in his voice.

"I've seen him get knocked out, but I've never-Lestrade, what do you need me to do?" John suddenly demanded, the implied seriousness of the occasion hitting him.

"I thought you might…that is…well, he's going to be kind of useless after this," Lestrade tried explaining. "I mean, once he passes out, it's pretty much a sign that he needs to rest for a day or two."

"And you'd like me to make him rest?"

"_Shut up, all of you! I'm FINE! I don't need to sit down, I'm going to cling to this chair and do ten times the work that you lot do with your bipedal abilities!"_

"No," Lestrade sighed into the phone. "I want you to make him go home…"

...2.

Everyone was shocked to find that Sherlock wasn't good with children. After all, he held all the promise of being a spotless role model, with his intense stare and propensity to maniacal laughter, not to mention the dead animals he collected and the lethal poisons he kept unorganized and haphazard.

The shock came when the only witness to a suicide-homicide case was a seven-year-old boy named Tim. Tim with one-inch thick glasses, bowl-shaped hair and a nasty head cold.

Lestrade had given the boy an honorary policeman's badge and a teddy bear for being so brave. Sally had offered to give him a ride in her squad car for answering all of their questions so helpfully. Sherlock took a Q-tip and stuck it into the boy's ear without asking.

As everyone stared at the back of Sherlock's head and Tim scratched his ear, Sherlock bagged the Q-tip into an evidence container and towered over the boy. "Did you hear anything strange right before the man entered the flat?" he asked, his tone allowing no nonsense.

The boy's lip quivered a little and he backed up into John. John patted him on the shoulder and gave Sherlock an exasperated look. "Sherlock, it may help if you get down on his level," said John's mouth, while John's eyes were clearly saying, _Will you stop that? You're frightening him._

Sherlock went down on one knee in an awkward crouch. "Tim," he said in false sweetness. "I'm very interested to know if you heard the sound of a bell or some kind of ringing right before the gunshot."

"Um…" said Tim. It looked as though he was concentrating fiercely. "I don't remember," he said. Suddenly a greenish-yellow liquid seeped out of Tim's nose like a little droplet of water or an icicle.

Sherlock felt all the blood leave his face as he stared at the snot coming out of the little boy's nose. "EW," people heard him say before he went over sideways.

Tim looked concerned, but was soon led away by Sally with promises of sweets and trying out her car's siren. John knelt beside Sherlock and took a pulse.

"What happened?" asked Lestrade, holding his hands up in confusion.

John held a perfectly straight face, as he quipped, "S'not a big deal."

...3.

"Just hold still, Sherlock, and you will live," John said, sniffing. The frigid outside temperature bombarded with the blasting heat inside was giving him a runny nose, which he tempered with a handkerchief. The only reason he'd been outside in minus 20 degrees was to prevent Sherlock getting hurt or catching cold.

Now, Sherlock was hurt, and John was catching a cold. Granted, Sherlock wasn't very hurt, just cut up on his forearm from slamming himself bodily into a brick wall to avoid being shot. John was carefully picking out debris and dabbing antiseptic here and there while Sherlock cringed and hissed intermittently.

"John," Sherlock whispered, horrified.

John looked up at him, frowning. "I know that didn't hurt, Sherlock," John murmured. "I was just wrapping the cut…"

"No…no, it's just…it's…it's…your…your thing, oh my god…"

John tilted his head to suggest that Sherlock was talking gibberish when he felt a trickle of warmth go over his top lip and then down his chin. He dabbed at the wetness with his handkerchief and the spot was red. Nosebleed, then. "It's all right, sometimes in the winter, my sinuses get dried out and-"

Sherlock was standing up away from the little folding chair John had set for him in the bathroom. "Yep," he said. "Nosebleed, very common…it's just…oh my god…"

John was about two inches from grabbing the man's wavering arm when suddenly Sherlock toppled over backwards and into the tub, grasping desperately at the shower curtain as he fainted once again. Now John was cringing and hissing as he heard the clank-thud of Sherlock's head hitting the lip of the porcelain.

It would be hours later, with Sherlock tucked into bed sporting white cotton bandages around his head like a soap opera amnesia victim, that John would finally get the chance to ask him, "Is it always things coming out of people's noses that makes you do that?"

At which point Sherlock tried to kill him by repeatedly slapping him in the face with a wet flannel.

...4.

John soon learned that his assumption about Sherlock only fainting at nose drippings was definitely false.

He'd been abducted. Again. He tried to be prepared, but dammit, kidnappers kept getting more and more clever and able-bodied. So, he sat there in a cellar for about thirty hours, his hands and feet numb from the harsh rope bindings around them. He was given water every 8 hours or so, and couldn't help but hope that the situation would end amiably, especially with Sherlock out there looking for him.

As John was about to drift off to sleep, he heard shouting and heavy footfalls on the floor above him. The unmistakable sound of Lestrade's booming voice was so gratifying. Then, there was a sound that confused him. It sounded like someone hammering the floor. John strained his neck toward the door to figure out what was happening, but the noises abruptly stopped and someone was jiggling the lock to his prison.

Two officers, guns training at different spots around the room, entered. "All clear!" one of the announced, and then Sherlock was in the room and leaping down the stairs like a suddenly freed panther.

He dropped to his knees in front of John, touching his shoulders and his face, as if in disbelief. John noticed how waxy and pale Sherlock's face was and saw bleeding cuts across his hands and fingers. "John…they said…they killed you," he gasped. He tentatively reached for the bindings around the doctor's wrists, his depleted strength obvious as he could barely hold himself up to paw at John's bound arms. "There was blood…there was so much blood…I thought it was yours, I couldn't see…" and then he keeled over like a rotten log.

"Sherlock," John said softly.

"Oh, boy are we glad to see you, Dr. Watson!" said an officer that John wasn't very familiar with. "Sherlock sure gave those guys upstairs a walloping before they told him you were down here." The man cut the ropes on John's hands and feet with a pocket knife. "Do you need the paramedics, Dr. Watson?"

John looked at Sherlock's ashen complexion and cut and bruised knuckles. He didn't really know how to answer the question.

...5.5.

A week later, it was Sherlock's turn to be kidnapped. Snatched right off the street on his way back from Mycroft's office. A foreign convict facing extradition apparently planned on using Sherlock as leverage in exchange for Mycroft's people erasing the charges against him.

Mycroft had the location in thirty minutes. It took seven more hours before he could manage to get it secured.

John even got to kick in the front door himself.

Sherlock had been locked in a sauna 90 centimetres across and 190 centimetres tall. The bloody thing had been turned up to its highest temperature, and John had tried to warn Sherlock not to stand up too quickly, but he never listened. Sweat-soaked and dehydrated, Sherlock's body went down, his head following in its wake. This time, John caught him.

+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1.+1. 

"This is fantastic!" Sherlock crowed. "Can you believe how lucky we are, John, to be witness to three hostage deliberations going on at once! Not to mention Moriarty and the little message he left this morning. Things are definitely, definitely looking up!" Sherlock was shouting and John began to wonder how long it had been since the man had had any B12 in his diet.

"Well, let's not forget the hostages and the fourteen prisoners Moriarty threatened to off," John said, shrugging into his jacket.

"Oh, sod them," Sherlock said carelessly. He paused for a moment. Then he jumped in the air. "Oh, this is just so exciting!" He landed on the ground and paused, swaying a bit. "Woah…think I may have gotten a little too excited." He had that look of "About to faint!" written all over him.

And then John hit him. Right in the face.

It was enough.

When Sherlock came to, he looked around at the room dazedly. "Wha-What happened?"

John frowned sympathetically. "You fainted again, mate."

Sherlock rubbed his cheek. "But why does my face hurt?"

John picked up an object from the floor. "You must've fallen on top of your skull," he said, holding up the macabre decoration. "Or perhaps you just fell onto my fist," he muttered.

"What?" Sherlock asked, hitching an eyebrow.

"You're going on a diet!" John yelled.

"But-I never eat as it is!" Sherlock protested.

"Think of it as a reverse of your brother's diet," John explained. "Everything Mycroft isn't allowed to eat, you're going to eat. Whenever Mycroft must strictly keep to two meals a day, you will eat _four_."

"That's ridiculous!" Sherlock snapped. "That's why Mycroft is so fat!"

"Well, I'm sure Mycroft's assistants don't have to worry about him toppling over all the time either."

Sherlock just pouted.

…..

Marill: And that's the end! :D


	4. Frills

They were purple, with a pink stitched heart right over the left bum cheek. Lacy white fringe ran over thighs and across hip bones and lower stomach. They were the embodiment of frill and feminine and delicate. It was the first time John had ever had a partner that he wanted to keep the panties _on._

The first time he'd seen them, they hadn't been together. An odd color sticking out of the waistband of Sherlock's trousers caught his eye one afternoon as the man bent down to grab his phone charger. John had catalogued that bit of information away and saved it for later.

As soon as they'd had their first kiss, it all came back to John in a flourish of sexual heat and white ruffles. Sherlock and John had strewn themselves hastily across the sofa, lips desperate to meet again and again while tongues tentatively and then vigorously danced. The shirts were the first thing to go, Sherlock tugging at John's white tee and then his own green button up. John's trousers were discarded next, leaving him in his nothing-special shorts, which Sherlock teasingly played with.

John realized that Sherlock was making no moves to remove his own trousers, so he decided to help, unfastening the brown leather belt holding the slacks up to Sherlock's waist. Sherlock tried distracting John from unbuttoning them, but John went on with determination.

"John, umm…" Sherlock started to say.

John had Sherlock's pants ripped down to mid-thigh before the man could make another sound. John faked a gasp. "You like wearing girl's underwear, do you?" he said in his most seductive voice. "Like walking around all day in your panties?"

Sherlock blushed. It was adorable. "It's just…a small quirk I have," he said.

John suddenly stood up, pulling Sherlock's pants off him as he went. "Stand up," he said. Sherlock did. "Bend over the arm of the sofa."

And then Sherlock was caught up, as John brandished Sherlock's belt in his left hand, smacking his open right hand to heighten the anticipation. Sherlock bent over the sofa, arching his back, displaying his lacy underwear and his scrumptious back muscles.

"You're a bad girl," John said.

THWACK.


	5. To John H Watson

Last Will and Testament of

Sherlock Holmes

I, Sherlock S. Holmes, of 221B Baker Street, London, England, declare this as my Last Will and Testament.

Article I

Preliminary Declarations

I revoke all prior wills and condicils.

I am cohabiting a flat with John H. Watson and have no children.

Article II

Special Bequests and Devises

Hereafter, I will make declarations of those possessions of mine that are real, and to which individuals I would like them to be left.

To Mycroft J. Holmes, I leave the following items:

One (1) petrified engorged human stomach

To Martha L. Hudson, I leave the following items:

One (1) China tea cabinet

Eight (8) various gems that I have previously collected as payment

Six (6) months' rent payable from my banking account

One (1) renter, who may need a reduction in rent payments in the wake of my passing

To Gregory F. Lestrade, I leave the following items:

Seventeen (17) Policeman badges

One (1) Orange shock blanket

One (1) box of crime scene photographs of dubious possession

One (1) collections of criminal literature novels

One (1) army doctor, with whom I trust you fully

To John H. Watson, I leave the following items:

One (1) human skull

One (1) sketch diary

Two (2) deduction journals

One (1) collection of records and compact disks

One (1) human heart (figurative)


	6. The bottom of the staircase

Sherlock was very disoriented when he woke up. He was staring straight at a dark spot on the ceiling which was the only place Mrs. Hudson couldn't reach with her duster, and therefore collected dirt. Wonderful, understanding Mrs. Hudson, she tried so hard to keep a tidy home and only had minor fussing at Sherlock's habitual apathy about where he threw things or left things or _created _things.

It seemed that most recently he had thrown himself at the bottom of the staircase. Only he couldn't remember doing so.

His phone was gone from him. He couldn't feel its weight in any of his pockets, no need to check. Sherlock shifted up onto his elbow and felt a startling pain in his lower back.

Right, time to get help. "John? John, where are you...? My back, I... I think... Oh god, I can't feel my legs..." As the sensation of numbness became real and apparent, he tried willing one of his legs to move or shift. His toes to wiggle. He kneecaps to flex. Sherlock's breath came faster as he began to panic at the thought of what had happened to him. He could be paraplegic. Or he could have two broken legs. That was the nicer explanation.

Sherlock knew that he was alone in the flat. He couldn't hear anyone else puttering about or talking or breathing or squeaking in a chair. He called for them anyway. Sherlock lay at the bottom of the stairs crying for John, for Mrs. Hudson, for the neighbors, until he exhausted himself.

John came home hours later, having bought postage stamps, a new slip cover for the couch, and getting through with a few other menial errands. He didn't expect to see Sherlock on the floor at the bottom of the staircase. Next to the sofa, perhaps, but not stretched out with one long leg dangling across the third step.

"Sherlock?" he said, placing his shopping on the floor and kneeling next to his flat mate's side.

Sherlock's eyes opened and he craned his neck to observe John. His voice cracked when he said, "John, I think I'm broken."

John's stomach clenched painfully. "What happened? Do I need to call you an ambulance?"

Sherlock groaned and shifted his upper body, his legs following listlessly. "I can't feel my legs," he whispered.

Then John palpated. Cervical, thoracic, lumbar, gently gently. Sherlock cringed when John put slight pressure on his lower back. "Sherlock, I have to call for the paramedics. I know you don't want that, but I can't move you without a backboard." He had already dialed 999, decidedly ignoring the token protest from his friend.

Only there were no protests that day.

/

"Pain sensation is good all the way to your toes, Mr. Holmes. And, your muscles respond to electro-stimulation. Your x-rays look good, MRI came back fine. I would guess that the shock to your system when you fell gave you some temporary paralysis. Should wear off in a few hours, at most a few days," a Dr. Canson was explaining. "Take it slow, don't rush anything, get lots of rest, okay? If you need any pain meds, let the nurse know before you leave."

John breathed an even deeper sigh of relief than Sherlock did. He shot the laid up man a teasing look. "What'd you have to go and scare me like that for?"

Sherlock grunted and fidgeted restlessly with the hospital robe. "Can I go home now?"

"How am I supposed to get you up the stairs and into our flat?" John asked.

"Build me an elevator," Sherlock suggested.

"I can't build an elevator!"

"Why is this the first I'm hearing of it?" Sherlock demanded. He sighed dramatically. "Fine, I suppose we will have to move in to a hotel."

"My treat of course," John said tersely.

"Of course."

Marill: I am not a doctor. ;) I just remember things my doctor said when I fell and had paralysis in my arm.


	7. A Plaster in Pink

Marill: Because, honestly? I can't stop myself. Not that I've heard anyone complain. *wink wink*

/

It happened to be crucial to solving a case that Sherlock prove to everyone that the killer couldn't have vaulted over a fence without leaving prints in the grass. So, always one eager to demonstrate his points, Sherlock launched himself sideways up and over the metal chain link monstrosity. It was unforeseeable that his hand would slide into one of the links and get caught by the sleeve, his weight snapping his wrist as he went down the other side.

A fussing, cursing Sherlock, bone jutting up out of his forearm, was led to a taxi by four men and Sally Donovan all at once. No one noticed him sneak three highly potent pain pills as he was bundled into the car, Lestrade guiding his head so he wouldn't strike it on the roof.

As John rode with him to the hospital, he chalked Sherlock's intermittent daze and chattiness up to blinding, endorphin-releasing, and gratuitous amounts of pain.

But he had his suspicions.

/

Three hours later, Sherlock was being wheeled out of the emergency ward and into reception where John was waiting, concern palpable. John raised an eyebrow, as there had been nothing wrong with Sherlock's _legs _when he'd gone in for treatment.

As the nurse locked the wheelchair in place, it became apparent why it was necessary.

"John, so many things fly. Why not I?" Sherlock said before laughing so hard he nearly toppled the wheelchair over.

"What the hell did you give him?" John asked incredulously.

"John! John! Look! Look look look looklooklooklooklooklooklook…"

The nurse cringed. "Just a little sedative to set the bone and then some pain killers…he's having a really strong reaction…"

"Look look! Please look!"

"Is he going to be all right? I mean, is it wise to take him home so soon-"

"LOOK DAMN YOU!" Sherlock growled in a terrifying, evil voice.

John finally made eye contact with the flailing man in the wheelchair. Sherlock rolled back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal his broken wrist, now in a hot pink cast.

"They said no, but I made them do it," Sherlock said, proud of himself.

"What-what in the-how-" John stammered.

"It's an homage," Sherlock said, giving the last word a slightly strained version of jazz hands.

John put his face in his hands and muttered, "Somehow, this is going to be my fault tomorrow."

/

"Ah, good, here comes Sherlock now," Lestrade said to Anderson, who sneered. "Maybe he can make some sense out of the letter.."

Sherlock got out of the taxi, his air of superiority intact. "Where exactly in the attic did you find it?" he demanded, grabbing the letter in his left hand.

"How do you know we found it in the attic?" Lestrade asked.

"Because it smells of mould and moth balls and rotting wood…also there is a little stain where the boiler dripped on it…the daughter wrote this…"

Sally Donovan caught a glimpse of something distinctly _the wrong color _as Sherlock walked past her. Even though she was no Sherlock Holmes, Sally could put two and two together and come up with four. "Hey freak, can I sign your cast?" she shouted after him.

Sherlock's feet faltered for a moment and he pretended to stumble over a tree root. He turned halfway toward Sally. "That won't be necessary, Sally, I already know what you would write…"

"Hold on, I've got a purple pen," Sally added, going through the pockets of her coat.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Um, shall we continue?" he wondered.

Lestrade had stopped walking toward the house and was seemingly intrigued. He too had had a peek at Sherlock's wrist. "Sherlock," he said slowly, dying inside for trying to keep a straight face. "Did you get a pink cast?"

Now everyone stopped what they had been doing to stare at the consulting detective's rapidly reddening cheeks. After a deep breath, Sherlock rolled up his sleeve and presented his arm for everyone to see. "There. Everyone seen it? Can we continue on?"

A flash of light nearly blinded him as a nearby officer with a crime scene camera said, "This one will be perfect for the month of February."


	8. This is for your own good

"This is for your own good."

So many people had made that statement to him over the last 48 hours. Mycroft had said it when he jabbed Sherlock in the neck with a needle and lowered him to the floor. Lestrade said it when he'd come to take Sherlock's statement, shaking his head, refusing to make any eye contact. Mummy said it as she signed her consent for Sherlock's long-term confinement, her eyes red, her fingers shaking.

Even John _even John _managed to utter the same sentence that everyone kept saying to him. Sherlock leaned his head against the cold wall of his cell, remembering in obnoxious detail John's visit.

After he'd yelled at his mother, screaming curses and deducing her best-kept and unscrupulous secrets, she ran her hand through his oily hair and down the side of his face. Then she'd left. And Sherlock had shifted miserably in the imprisoning white garment. Apparently after what he'd done, after what he'd _allegedly _done, Sherlock was _dangerous_. A _monster_. So, accordingly his deadly hands had to be restrained at his sides in a strait jacket, immobilizing him in case he had the mind to lunge at someone and take away their life. His feet were shackled together until he could exhibit _compliant behavior. _

John entered the cell, assuring the orderlies and security that he understood the danger involved in going in alone. He'd even signed a waiver, in case Sherlock managed to attack him.

John sat down in the metal folding chair, the only furniture in the room. Sherlock glared at him from his spot on the floor, leaned up against the wall.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock growled. "I assume you're going to get me out of here."

John didn't say anything. He watched Sherlock with infuriating calmness. But thankfully, not with pity.

"I didn't do it, John," Sherlock said, his voice a low rumble. "I haven't killed anyone-"

"Don't," John cut him off. "Just don't bother, Sherlock. I'm not here to argue this with you. We both know that's it's…so very, very clear that you _did _do it."

Sherlock shook with anger remembering the gruesome photographs he'd looked over when Lestrade had wanted help with the case. It was the work of a madman, a true psychopath…and slowly, one by one, people had begun to accuse him. First, Sally, of course. Typical. Anderson chimed in after that. Then forensic evidence had turned up and Sherlock had no excuses, no alibis. There was no way to explain away the mass of evidence that suggested not only that Sherlock had committed the murders, but that he'd also tried to cover it up.

Going to Mycroft for help had been the stupidest thing he could have done. In typical Mycroft fashion, his brother had betrayed him and turned him over to the authorities.

"I've been set up, John," Sherlock said for the thousandth time in two days. "Moriarty or…or something…"

"Moriarty's dead, Sherlock," John said, looking down at the ground. "The police found his burned up corpse."

Sherlock lifted his chin defiantly. "Why are you here then, John?" he demanded. "What reason do you have for visiting if you aren't going to believe me?"

"I wanted to say I'm sorry," John said looking at the man who was once his dear friend. "I wish I could have helped you…get better. I wish I had been what you needed to stop doing this. I hope that someday…" John shook his head and smiled briefly. He didn't finish his thought. Instead, he stood up and made for the door. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

Sherlock thrashed against the white jacket binding him. "John, wait! John, you have to help me get out of here! I swear I haven't done anything! Why won't you believe me? JOHN!"

John turned to him sadly. "This is for your own good, Sherlock." And then he was gone.

Sherlock struggled to his feet, wanting to watch John leave out of the cell's small, grimy window. He leaned heavily against the wall to support himself, and pressed his face against the cold glass, smearing the condensation.

John and his familiar walk, leaving the courtyard, avoiding the icy sidewalk and treading across the frosted grass. Sherlock realized with true fear that it might be the last he ever saw of his only friend.

He let out a sobbing exhale against the window, his eyes starting to burn with anger and grief.

He stopped. There were letters on the windows, written with someone's index finger. His warm breath had illuminated them for a brief moment. Sherlock huffed against the entirety of the glass to determine what had been written there.

For a few seconds, he could make out the message: "This is for your own good, darling. M."


	9. This is for your own good Part 2

The first week Sherlock fought tooth and nail to keep hands off of him, to keep food and drink out of his body, and to keep his brain from running in circles. He snarled and snapped like a wild animal, ineffectively trying to keep control.

The first time he woke up in his cell, the first time he'd woken up since John had walked out of sight, he realized that he had been sedated for some amount of time. His body felt sore and bruised like someone had been manhandling him. His clothes had been taken from him, except of course for the strait jacket. Now, the crotch strap was in use, far too tightly, making every movement (and even complete stillness) nearly unbearable.

At dawn, three men came into the prison room and snatched him up to standing, wordlessly. Sherlock thrashed about, cursing at them but was held firmly. He decided to go limp in the rough hands on his biceps and got dragged into a community shower room. His bare feet started struggled for purchase against the slick tiles underneath them as he was forced into a shower stall effortlessly.

It unnerved him how none of the orderlies made eye contact or spoke to him. It was as if they were trying to wash a dog, or perhaps more accurately, a machine. Orderly A, One Earring, held Sherlock against the wall of the shower with one meaty hand and turned on the water with the other. Sherlock was confused that they hadn't bothered to take the strait jacket off of him. Surely they didn't plan to keep him restrained indefinitely.

Sherlock gasped as the ice-cold water hit him in the face and ran down his neck inside the strait jacket. He jerked away from One Earring's hold for just a moment, long enough to squeeze into a corner away from the water. Crew Cut grabbed him by the neck of his jacket and One Earring got a firm grip on his arm.

"Oh, fuck!" Sherlock yelled, as the cold water cascaded over him. He scrunched his eyes tightly shut as a violent shudder went through him. Sherlock tried to shoulder his way out of the strait jacket, realizing fully well that he wouldn't have any more luck in the shower with three men on him than he'd had all night trying to struggle out of the damn thing.

The third orderly, Frown Lines, appeared in front of him with a soapy sponge. Sherlock was determined that no one was going to touch him like that. With each of him arms held steady by One Earring and Crew Cut, Sherlock picked up his shackled feet and aimed for Frown Lines' chest. He didn't expect that they would just drop him.

"Easier like this anyway," said Frown Lines, his voice swimming through the haze of bells ringing. Sherlock felt a stabbing pain in his head for about two seconds before a calloused sponge began to run over his legs.

He was dumped back in the cell after they had finished scrubbing him down. He hadn't been offered a towel or a robe and he was dripping wet in the cold room. His teeth chattered and he pulled his legs up to his chest to try and keep some heat in.

It was some hours later with his head throbbing and the strait jacket smelling damp that Frown Lines and One Earring returned. They placed a tray of hospital grade food on the floor in front of him and left. Sherlock turned his nose up at the plate arrogantly. He would prefer starvation.

The first week bled into the second. Sherlock's right arm was numb and his left was a dull ache which would probably turn numb as well.

His routine never varied. Every morning at sunrise, he was pulled struggling from his cell (a struggle which grew weaker and weaker each day) and into an ice-cold shower where rough hands would scrub him in a manner that was far too intimate. Strait jacket sopping wet, he'd be thrown back into the unheated cell for a few more hours. He always tried to walk around a little during those hours to keep warm and to keep up his strength. Looking out the little window at least gave him a little variation.

Food was delivered once daily and he was forced to inelegantly eat whatever it was face-first. He only accepted it because the threat of force-feeding him had been brought up.

He couldn't do anything to stop the boredom. It kept pulling at him until he thought he'd go as mad as they said he was.

One day in the third week, they boarded up his window, and Sherlock gave up.

….

Marill: I know! Sad times, right? Next time, we'll see if Sherlock can manage to get out of there!


	10. This is for your own good Part 3

Summary: Sherlock in a strait jacket…it's for his own good!

Warnings: Dark angsty

Marill: Sorry about the wait! :D

…

Sherlock woke up an hour after dawn and it startled him. His routine had changed. He tried struggling up onto his feet but found his legs were numb from his awkward sleeping position. He listened intently to the sounds outside his cell. There was the shifting of feet and hushed voices but nothing more.

When someone finally opened the door to his room, he tried to flatten himself against the wall. After having known what to expect of his captors for so long, when one of them walked in with a syringe, it truly frightened him.

… 

A seed of doubt had been planted in John's mind. It had been a nightmare convincing himself that Sherlock had been responsible for the ritualistic murder of the four children. John had been the last person to try defending his accused flat mate. It changed for him when he found a small, bloodied dress stuck to the bottom of their laundry basket. Finally, John was convinced too. Donovan had been right. Sherlock had finally put out some bodies for them to find. It had almost broken John to have one final visit with his former friend.

Four weeks since he'd left Sherlock in the mental hospital, it wasn't any easier for John. He had assisted Mycroft by systematically packing Sherlock's belongings into crates whenever he had a spare moment. He had cleared the man's things out of every other room where the belongings had crept over time and was about to start on Sherlock's bedroom.

John shoved the door to the bedroom open, moving flotsam out of the way. He stared at the room from the doorway, not sure which mountain of stuff he should start with. Finally, he pushed the door open further and unearthed a small scrap of paper that had been stuck in the hinge.

His eyes ran over the page three times. He then called the hospital to schedule a visit.

…

"How is he doing, Dr. Angner?" John asked Sherlock's psychiatrist as he waited to be signed in.

The doctor frowned, as if trying to place him. "Oh, Mr. Holmes? He's doing very well. Just sleeping now…you're the husband-?"

John shook his head with a pleasant smile. "I'm-I _was _his flat mate…wanted to come see if he was getting on okay."

"Well, just try not to disturb him too much," Dr. Angner warned. "He can be a bit…jumpy."

John nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised…"

A few minutes later, a ward nurse led John down to Sherlock's room. He was happy to see that they had moved him out of the drafty holding cell, as promised, and put him into a more traditional hospital room with working heat and a bed.

Sherlock was covered to his neck in blankets, sleeping away restfully. John pulled a chair next to the bed and spoke in low tones, trying to wake Sherlock gently.

"Sherlock. Wake up, it's John. I've got to ask you something, and we're not going to have a lot of time…" John watched the man's face for any signs of wakefulness, but Sherlock continued to snooze, unbidden. John shook Sherlock on the shoulder lightly at first, then a bit more roughly.

Concerned, John checked Sherlock's pupils. Barely visible. So he was sedated then. John looked over his shoulder to see if he was being watched. A few scenarios ran through his mind. Were they keeping Sherlock sedated all the time? Or had they just done so in anticipation of John's visit?

John pulled the blankets down to check for ostomy pouches. Nothing there, so he couldn't have been sedated for very long. John pulled up the sleeve on Sherlock's long-sleeved hospital gown to see if there were any repeated needle marks. He stopped at the wrist, which was red from friction burn. He quickly checked the other wrist to find it in the same condition.

John's heart began to race. Something was a bit not good here.

"Dr. Watson," a voice behind him whispered, startling John out of his skin. John whipped around to face Dr. Angner, who had managed to sneak up on him. "I'm afraid your visiting time is over. We have to allow Mr. Holmes his rest."

John glared at the psychiatrist. "What have you been doing to him?" he asked. "Why do you have him drugged and what happened to his wrists?"

"It's time for you to go to sleep now, Dr. Watson," said Angner, unfazed by the questions. He was soon flanked by a couple of large, mean-looking orderlies. "Gentlemen, please escort Dr. Watson to his new home."

A needle was brandished and John backed up until he was standing against Sherlock's bed. Slowly, the orderlies began to corner him. John's eyes darted around for an escape route. When he ran out of good options, John found himself climbing on top of Sherlock's blissfully ignorant body and then over to the other side of the bed, putting it between him and the three hospital workers.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, putting your unconscious friend on the front lines? How pathetic," said Angner fretfully.

"I think he will forgive me if it helps me put you lot in jail," said John fiercely. Using the only weapon at his disposal, John shoved the rolling bed into the orderly with the needle, causing the sharp object to fly across the room. Sherlock didn't even bat an eyelash. John merely plowed over Angner who tried running after the syringe. One orderly ran for backup, while the other tried to assist a slightly crushed Angner. John ran over him too, knocking him in the head with the metal railing on the bed.

Sherlock's body attempted to roll off the edge of the bed after the bump from running over two fallen bodies, but John caught him by the sleeve and pulled him upright.

"Steady, Sherlock," John said calmly. "Let's ride."

…

Sherlock's throbbing headache woke him up. He stared at the ceiling and wondered why he was hallucinating about being in his childhood home. He tried to blink away the illusion as he reached his hand up to rub his aching temple.

"Sherlock?" said a kind, familiar voice. Sherlock looked in the direction of it and opened his mouth in astonishment. It was John. Good old John Watson, sitting at his bedside vigil. "How are you feeling, Sherlock?" he asked, concerned.

Sherlock shut his eyes tightly for a moment, then looked back at John. "What?" he said eloquently.

John chuckled. "It's a looong story, involving running over a bunch of hospital staff with a gurney, a lot of thanks to your brother, a little help from Lestrade…and a really big apology from me," John finished soberly. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock, for not believing you…"

Sherlock waved him off. "It's what Moriarty wanted you to believe…what was that about running over someone with a gurney?"

"Your hospital bed, actually," John said. "With you in it…I wonder if we could get a copy of the security tape…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow then nodded. "What made you believe I was telling the truth?"

John fished out the strip of paper from his pocket and showed it to Sherlock. "Found this in your bedroom."

Sherlock examined the writing. _Holmes. 221B Baker St. Flat mate works 7-5. Leave dress in hamper. _"You recognized that it wasn't my handwriting," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, and there's a bloody thumb print on the back, which ought to be enough to get a search warrant," John said. He paused, looking at the calculating gaze in Sherlock's eyes. "Did I mention that I'm very, very sorry?"

"No harm done," Sherlock said.

John stared him down. "Really, Sherlock. I'm sorry. It's…it's not okay, and I saw a glimpse of the harm that was done."

"It took you a while, John, but you came through in the end…if you really want to make it up to me, I could do with a _hot shower _and some Chinese."

"I'm on it," John announced, getting up from his chair. He paused. "The Chinese, I mean, you can get your own shower."


	11. Snowpocalypse

Summary: A nasty blizzard hits London and John drags Sherlock out to help with the relief efforts.

Warnings: Sherlock being an arse about a natural disaster.

…

_ZWIP. THUNK._

"Bored."

_CLICK. ZWIP. THUNK._

"God, this is intolerable…"

_RUSTLE. ZWIP. PING. THUD._

"Damn…"

John came downstairs to see what was making all the strange little noises. He found Sherlock lying upside-down on the armchair, his legs on the headrest and his upper body dangling over the floor. He was holding something that looked like feathered pens in his left hand and staring up at the ceiling. John followed his line of sight to see three darts stuck to the plaster ceiling.

Sherlock took aim with one of his last two darts just as John had an outburst of fury. "Sherlock! Are those the _poison _darts you told me were for decoration only? Are you throwing them at the ceiling _above your body?_" He snatched the last two out of Sherlock's limp fingers. "What the hell, mate? I mean, just…no. This just will not do."

Sherlock mumbled something and slid onto the floor bonelessly.

"Sorry, what was that?" John asked wondering what he was going to do about the darts.

"I've been stuck in these rooms for _three bloody days _because of the blizzard," Sherlock groused from the floor. "I think I'm starting to go a little mad…"

John rolled his eyes. "You poor, poor thing," he grumbled. "People are literally freezing to death outside, and you in your comfortable flat with the nice fireplace are bored. Maybe the city should start a fund drive to help _you_."

Sherlock tilted his head to look at John. "Do you think they would?"

John was about to answer that when he found a stray dart that Sherlock had lost. Sticking up through the bottom of his shoe. Calmly, John plucked the lethally poisonous implement out of his shoe and placed it with the others. He pulled Sherlock up off the floor by his collar causing a choked yelp of protest, and dragged him to his disorganized bedroom.

"Put on clothes," John ordered. "Warm clothes. We're going out."

Sherlock forgot why he was protesting and practically dove into a pile of shirts. Within five minutes, he was bundled up tightly and joined John at the bottom of the staircase.

…

"You didn't tell me this is what we'd be doing," Sherlock complained. John had brought him to a Red Cross emergency service center to help feed and clothe the homeless and those who had been suffering from the blackout. Sherlock had been stationed at a supply wrap, putting together packages of blankets, donated coats, and non-perishable food kits.

"Doesn't it feel good to do something for others who need help?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock said. "It feels cold."

"Well, I am going to help in the first aid center. I'll come back for you when it's time to leave."

"I probably won't still be here," Sherlock informed him.

John raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't try wandering out in the blizzard by yourself," he warned. "Plus your hand might get cold without me holding it." With a flirtatious wink, John left Sherlock to wrapping up care kits.

Sherlock lost himself in the monotony after awhile, as even deducing whom each coat had belonged to lost its novelty after the fifth one.

That's when the unthinkable happened. "Sherlock, so good to see you out helping the poor. I never thought I'd run into you at one of these things."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Mycroft."

Mycroft, in a long-sleeved t-shirt, came out of the shadows to loom in front of Sherlock. "I assume John is over in the medical tent?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "What are you doing here?"

"Don't be silly, I organized this entire operation," Mycroft answered. "You know my position entails a lot of charity work."

Sherlock gave him a sarcastic smile. "I'm sure it does. Never hurts to get good publicity, does it?"

"Speaking of publicity…"

"No."

"Well, I have this task-"

"Absolutely not."

"I think you'll do it."

"What are you doing? Trying to play mind games with me? I think you'll lose."

"…"

…

"Remember, Sherlock, stick to the script," Mycroft said cheerily, standing behind the small studio camera.

Sherlock stood in front of a blue screen, glaring his brother down. A public service announcement. Why not just tattoo his face and address on every London criminal's forearm? Sherlock would make sure his brother never asked him to do something so ridiculous again.

"Hello. I'm with the British Red Cross Blizzard Relief Response. Just remember, that's BRC BRRRRRRR. I'd like to talk to you about the very important issue of safety during this horrible event that's probably going to kill all of you. I will be safe, of course, because I am not an idiot who would go trampling out into the snow and ice without an emergency kit and a spade. I also wouldn't try to drive a car through 100 centimetres of frost. I will be warm and secure because I have the very rare ability to use my powerful brain. Most of you don't have such an ability and you will perish. That is called natural selection. In case anyone actually is capable of understanding what I'm saying and following competent advice, I will now give a few tips about safety. First, stay inside unless you have to go out. Walking to a store for anything other than food will cause you to die. Second, don't send your children out for your errands. They are even more susceptible to blizzard conditions and can become little frozen humans. I know that sounds cute, but really it's just sad. If you don't have heat in your home, sleep with a loved one, like I do. Body heat, and even physical intimacy or intercourse, can keep you and your partner safely warm. Additionally, it can give you something to do while you're stuck indoors. Don't start a fire inside your home unless it is contained in a real fireplace. Practically everything is flammable, especially human skin wrapped in newspaper. Finally, if you see me out on the streets, don't ask me for any further advice because I will not help you. I'm very busy. And never ever try to touch me."

"Cut," said Mycroft.

…

John shrugged into his heavy coat as he located Sherlock in the supply tent. "How did you like charity work?" he asked.

Sherlock smirked. "I got to be on telly."

"Really?" John said, looking impressed. "Did they interview you or something?"

"I got to let the city of London know my opinion of them."

"Oh god…"

…

Marill: This was a little bit of having fun, but let's not forget that there is a very real natural disaster in Queensland, Australia right now. If you can, lend a hand to those in need or visit one of the livejournal fic/art auction sites to bid on some lovely works by our community of Sherlock and other fandom enthusiasts!


	12. Happy Thanksgiving!

Summary: Sherlock gets hit in the head. John tries to keep him awake until help arrives.

Warnings: Slightly funny/slightly dramatic head injury?

...

Lovely. Sherlock chasing the suspect in a triple homicide case into a cemetery. And not just any cemetery. A 2 square kilometer cemetery with rotting headstones, tombs and sepulchers. As always, Scotland Yard was running behind, caught up in paperwork somewhere, and John was Sherlock's only backup trailing unnervingly far behind him.

At least Sherlock had deduced that the man, Harry Hobson, had no weapons. That gave John a little ease.

That changed when he caught up to them in time to witness Hobson striking Sherlock on the side of the head with a muddy shovel. It didn't make a _DING _sound like metal against skull. It made more of a _THUD, _slightly softer in tone than the sound Sherlock's body made when it crumpled to the ground.

John had his gun clutched in his left hand, steady as his nerves, pointing at Hobson in less than a second. "Don't move!" John ordered.

Hobson moved. John shot at him and missed as the man ducked behind a thicket of trees and bolted for a fence.

"Shit," John growled, pocketing his gun and bee-lining for his friend. Boyfriend. Something in between.

"Sherlock," John said, unaware that his voice was a little shaky. He carefully rolled Sherlock over into a recovery position so he could get a good look at the side of his head. John hissed, seeing the blood soaking the dark curls, barely distinguishable in the hazy lamplight. He tried to gingerly move Sherlock's hair out of the way to see the cut when the insensible man started to come round.

"Ooohhh…." Sherlock groaned for about a full minute and John rubbed up and down his arm to reassure him. "Lestrade?" Sherlock said.

"John," said John. "How do you feel, Sherlock?"

"Bad."

"What are your symptoms?" To the point. Assessing, diagnosing. Concussion? TBI?

"What…where are we?" Sherlock asked, oblivious to John's line of questioning. "I don't feel like we should be on the ground like this…John?"

"We're in a cemetery, Sherlock," John said. "You chased a murderer into a cemetery and he hit you with a shovel. That's why you feel 'bad'."

"Hobson case?"

"Yes."

"Did he get away?"

"I'm afraid so."

Sherlock attempted to push himself up on his arms, but was held in place by John. "It's wet, John," he complained.

John shrugged out of his jacket and placed it under Sherlock's head and shoulders. "There. That'll keep your face off the wet grass." He pulled out his mobile to call for help. "Damn…no signal…Sherlock, will you be all right here while I try to get a decent signal and call an ambulance?"

"Mmm…" Sherlock said.

John cursed. "What am I thinking? Of course you won't be all right. There's a bloody murderer with a shovel running around out here…we'll just have to wait then…"

"John…."

"What?"

"Did Hobson get away?"

John sighed. "It looks that way, Sherlock."

Sherlock nuzzled his face into the side of John's leg. "Is this one of those situations where I have to stay awake?"

"Yes. You need to stay awake because you've got a concussion."

"Eeeugh…"

"Feel sick?"

"Mm-hmm."

John scratched his fingernails up and down Sherlock's back. "Perfectly normal. You'll be okay…"

"Happy Thanksgiving, John."

"Who do you know who celebrates Thanksgiving?"

"Mycroft…good excuse for him to eat a whole lot of shit…"

"Eloquent."

"M'cold."

John buttoned up Sherlock's coat for him and rubbed his arms for friction. "You're okay…just hang in there…"

Sherlock lay still for a few moments, his eyes closing slowly.

"Sherlock, stay awake," John implored him. "You've got to stay awake. It's very important." Sherlock didn't budge. "Sherlock. Sherlock, tell me today's date."

"Hmm?"

"What day of the month is it?"

Sherlock blinked and stared at John vacantly. "Tuesday…"

"Okay, well it's Friday, and also that wasn't what I asked you…"

"Friday?"

"Yep."

"I thought it was Tuesday."

"Nope."

"John…did Hobson get away?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Not good…he's hard to find…"

John dabbed at Sherlock's bleeding scalp with his handkerchief. "Where are you, Lestrade…" he murmured.

"I'm right here," Sherlock answered.

"Yes, thank you, Lestrade." John checked his phone again for signal.

"Head hurts…"

"I know," John said. "It's okay…we're going to get some help…eventually."

"Can I sleep?"

"No."

"Do I have concussion?"

"Yes."

"I don't like that…"

"What don't you like?"

"…what?"

"Let's play a memory game."

"Don't think I can."

"We'll try it anyway. What's your name?"

"Sherlock."

"When is your birthday?"

"January 6th."

"When is Mycroft's birthday?"

"Mycroft?"

"Yes."

"Don't know."

"Did you know before you got hit in the head?"

"Don't know…"

"What is my name?"

"Mycroft…"

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"Are you trying to be cute?"

"…"

"Sherlock."

"…"

John shook Sherlock's shoulder gently. "Come on, babe, you've gotta stay with me." Sherlock didn't respond. "Sherlock. Wake up, right now." John smacked him lightly on the cheek. "Fuck…" John said, grimacing. He glared at his phone, willing it to gain a signal. "I'm not going to go far, Sherlock," he promised, giving the detective a kiss on the forehead. "I won't let you out of my sight."

John jogged a little piece away from Sherlock, holding his mobile above his head, trying to grab a signal. He glanced over his shoulder every couple of seconds, keeping an eye on Sherlock's motionless body.

Finally, John got a signal. He called Lestrade, cursed the man to hell and back, and told him where they were.

Kneeling back beside his friend-lover, John waited calmly in the dark, holding onto Sherlock's hand.

…

Sherlock woke up in hospital, annoyed at the little noises the people and machines around him were making.

"Hey," said a harried voice at his side. "Can you tell me your name?"

Sherlock glared over at John. "Stephen Hawking."

John blinked. "What?"

"Really, John, my head has taken far worse beatings than the one last night."

"Last week," John amended.

"What?"

"Just kidding."

"Unfair…"

"Anyway, can you tell me that day of the week?"

"I don't know. I don't keep track of trivial things like that."

"Saturday," John informed him. "How's the headache?"

"Bearable," Sherlock said.

"Well, it's about to get worse…Mycroft's on his way to see you."

"Oh, no he isn't. Keep him away. Tell him I have a flesh-eating virus."

"I think he might see through that lie."

"Then make it convincing."

"I'll see what I can do." John stood and leaned over to kiss Sherlock's temple. "Try to be more careful with that brain, huh? I kind of like some of the things it does."


	13. Conversations in sleep

Summary: Sherlock and John sleep-talk at each other.

Warnings: Nothing explicit.

It's half three in John and Sherlock's bed. Not just in their bed, in the whole city, of course.

As amazing a feat as it is to have Sherlock sleeping in the bed with him, it wouldn't surprise John at all that it's half three in the _afternoon _when the two of them are dead to the world, Sherlock trying to sleep-cuddle John's leg, and John trying to sleep-push him out of the bed. Not that sleep-John has an issue sharing a bed with his mad lover. But Sherlock is so damn possessive, he can be like a tumor on your thigh.

Neither of them admits to being a sleeptalker in the daytime, and John won't own up to his sleepwalking, although he once found himself about to urinate in his closet.

Sometimes, when conditions are right, the minds of Sherlock and John (and their voices and ears too) make an unconscious almost-connection.

This is one of those times.

"John…grind up exactly 8 metacarpals for the paste…"

"No…I'm making candles…make your own paste…"

"It's so important, John…hand me that rabbit carcass."

"I'm covered in wax right now. Can't help you."

"Go to the bath…you smell."

"I don't smell. I don't hear or see either."

"Stop touching me. I have to concentrate. Mycroft, I will put my femur through your skull if you don't move."

"No you won't. No he won't, Mycroft. It's okay…"

"Dead rabbit! Now!"

"My arm is made of Legos…"

"My hand is made of garlic butter…"

"Don't be insane…"

"Porpoises."

"I feel like I'm flying away…"

"Porpoise meat."

"Sherlock, I'm floating away from the earth! Grab my foot!"

"Your Lego foot?"

"No, my regular foot…"

"I don't like swamp water…it tastes like feet. And smelly things."

"Don't drink it. Who told you to drink it?"

"You've made a lot of candles in here…"

"I know. Be proud of me one time?"

"No."

"Do we have anymore snakes?"

"What kind of drinks?"

"Why do I want snakes anyway? Ahh! There's one now! It's on my leg!"

"O-N-O-M-A-T-O-P-O-E-I-A. Onomatopoeia."

"Frisky biccies."

"Mmm…want that."

"Take off your clothes."

"I want to seeeeeee."

"First your shirt…shirt comes off…"

"I can see our house from here…it's beautiful behind the volcano…"

"Goodbye pants…hello butt."

"Don't touch my butt…"

"It's not your butt. It's my butt."

"Oh. Okay, you can touch that."

"Zip zap. I want my belly to come back…"

"I'll get it for you."

"Don't go, Sherlock! It's not safe to get off the boat…"

"We are now entering Foxtrot."

"Lady…Blackberry in a purse…"

"The Sierra Club. Make a difference with your local environmental agency."

"Egret…"

"Arf arf…"

"…"

"Oh crumb…"

"Tea and crumpets…"

"Lepidoptera…"

"Felix blade."

"Richard blade."

"Goin to the library…"

"Rascal Javier."

"…blueberry…"

"…kidney stones…"

"…meat…"

"Porpoise meat…"

…

Marill: Ok, well, I thought the prompt was funny and I am very drunk as I finish writing this. I'm going to go ahead and post it, as I have laughed hard enough to frighten away every animal in my house. I hope I haven't lost my mind.


	14. Tickles

Summary: Asexual Sherlock loves being tickled. It doesn't bother him that that gets John turned on.

Warnings: Kinky not-sex

…

"Are you sure this is okay?"

"We are both benefiting from the situation, we are both consenting, what's the problem?"

"Well…I mean…"

"John, I'm already tied down. It will take a considerable effort to untie me at this point without first having profited from the situation."

John looked at his eccentric flatmate, unable to quell his growing arousal at seeing the inestimable Sherlock Holmes trussed up neatly on the floor, stripped down to his underwear, at John's mercy. John had perfected his rope-tying skills over the years with many of his inclined partners, and had made short work of hog-tying Sherlock to himself, even as the man had feigned a struggle. Now, with Sherlock on his stomach, wrists cinched tightly to ankles, John was having second thoughts. Mostly the fact that Sherlock wasn't interested at all in John other than a means to a kinky, self-satisfying end was what had John's conscience and self-respect in limbo.

But then, just as John was about to call it off, Sherlock shifted and his butt wiggled.

John jabbed his skilled fingers into Sherlock's sides, digging in between Sherlock's ribs. The reaction was immediate. Sherlock started yelling like John could imagine a five-year-old Sherlock being tickled might have. Sherlock's knee instinctively swung out, trying to push John away, but John simply stopped tickling with one hand to hold Sherlock's legs in place.

"Noooo!" Sherlock wailed like a dramatic person dying. John switched to fingering Sherlock's neck, which caused Sherlock to shrug his shoulders up in an effort to hide his neck like a turtle. All of Sherlock's screams and yelps (Mrs. Hudson was far, far away, which was the only reason they could do this insanity) descended into laughter like John had never heard before. Tears were pricking at Sherlock's eyes and his face turned red and he wriggled and strained against the ropes that John had tied so masterfully.

John let go of Sherlock's legs and jabbed at the sides of his belly in frenetic motions. Sherlock squealed and rolled onto his back, away from John. John followed him, nimbly straddling Sherlock's waist. He had to hide Sherlock's gloriously exposed lower half from himself. Otherwise, he could very well go mad.

John shook his head, unable to stop himself thinking about Sherlock's knees pulled back under him, his chest out, his arms straining underneath, legs spread, delicate, pleasurable parts on display.

He tickled Sherlock with a new ferocity, just for being so damn irresistible.

Sherlock started coughing and choking on his laughs. "Stop stop stop!" he cried, his face transformed into a manic grin.

John didn't stop, but gave a reminder. "You know the word you have to say if you want me to stop or to switch."

A desperate, nearly pleading Sherlock cried, "Switch! Switch!"

John wished he hadn't asked him for that, but knew he had to honor their rules. He stopped tickling and stared down at a gasping, glowing Sherlock. John climbed off soon after and rolled him back onto his stomach.

SMACK. John's hand slapped Sherlock on the arse. Sherlock's fingers clenched right above the spot John had hit. His body language threatened a wiggle or another turn over, so John place his right hand firmly on the small of Sherlock's back to hold him down, and spanked him again. John didn't pull any punches, so to speak, determined to punish Sherlock for arousing him so much, and generally being a big, sexy cock tease.

Sherlock made little grunts and whimpers every time John's hand connected with his back side or thighs. The noises were driving John mad and if he didn't have a fear of missing a garbled safe word, he might've gagged him.

Imagining Sherlock with a massive ballgag shutting him up just made John even closer to the brink of coming in his shorts. Never in all his history of kinky partners had John enjoyed deviance so much.

A hard THWACK against Sherlock's arse made him emit a sharp yelp, followed by "Switch!"

John turned Sherlock onto his back again, this time getting a divine eyeful of stretched muscles and restrained genius. He met Sherlock's eyes, which were full of question and anticipation. He slowly moved down to Sherlock's legs, keeping eye contact the entire time.

Sherlock's lower jaw dropped as he realized John's intention. "No, John! Please, not my feet!"

John smiled evilly. "Oh, yes. Your feet."


	15. If

Summary: John says sweet nothings to Sherlock after he thinks the man is asleep.

Warnings: None here.

…

If Sherlock ever woke up and heard John whispering sweet things into his ear instead of laying there quietly, he'd be furious.

If Sherlock knew that John waited until he fell asleep to tell him how much he loved him, how he loved every tiny particulate centimetre of Sherlock, he'd be uncomfortable.

If Sherlock could hear John say things like "You're beautiful. You're amazing. You're the one. You're my everything. You're so perfect. Don't ever leave me. I've waited my whole life for this, and I'd wait forever if that's what it took," he'd call John a sentimental fool.

If John knew that Sherlock clung to consciousness night after night just to hear these things, he might stop saying them.


	16. Cuddle Monster

Summary: Sherlock cuddles John in his sleep.

Warnings: None here.

…

Sherlock was dead on his feet. Everyone could see that. The stubborn arse wouldn't relent, however, until they'd made some headway in The Case, capitalized because of its month-long duration. John hadn't stopped hearing about The Case for an age. The past week Sherlock had yammered on and on without surrender, and John suspected that the bloody idiot hadn't had any sleep for that period of time.

Finally, Sherlock smoked a witness out of hiding and gained some solid evidence. Contrary to his usual form, Sherlock had relayed the information to Lestrade for processing and immediately headed for his flat.

A couple of hours later, John found him sleeping with his upper body sprawled over the couch and his legs stretched out across the floor. John assumed he had either collapsed like that or had some kind of fitful dream and fallen off. Probably the former was true.

Sherlock's spine was all twisted and his neck was at a bad angle, so John knew he'd have to move the man's big, dead weight fully onto the sofa. He started at the head, so that he could get Sherlock's length across the entire couch. When he pulled at Sherlock's shoulder, however, John found himself grabbed around the waist and held against the couch.

John grunted and tried to get Sherlock's arm off him, but he was in an iron grip. Then, to John's great amazement, Sherlock made a sound like a hiccup and stuck his thumb into his mouth like a toddler. He mumbled something and then lay still, with John filling the role of teddy bear.

John blinked. "Okay, Sherlock, just no. No, we aren't going to do this. I'm sorry." He then forcibly removed himself from Sherlock's grasp and left Sherlock's arm groping at nothing. Then, still sleeping, Sherlock started to whimper and moan like a dying cat, feeling around the couch with his fingers to find his lost teddy human and John found himself feeling sorry for his friend.

He tried to replace his own body with an assortment of things that Sherlock could cling to: pillows, blankets, his own jumpers, the skull, but Sherlock wasn't having it. John finally decided to just go with it. Sherlock was always invading his space, taking up his time to do this or that, so holding John down on the sofa for 9 hours wasn't that different.

"All right, Sherlock, you win. But the next time I need you to do something for me, I don't want to hear any backtalk. Or I will tell _everyone_ about this," John threatened the unconscious man.

Carefully, he put Sherlock's legs onto the sofa and managed to slide himself between Sherlock's body and the back of the couch. Sherlock immediately grabbed onto him and sighed pleasantly, his legs shifting a bit to lay on top of John's.

John fished the remote out of the cushions and turned on the TV. As he lay there, Sherlock gently choking the life out of him, John tried to think of something similar he could do to get Sherlock to eat.


	17. Chicken Pox

Summary: Sherlock has the chicken pox.

Warnings: None here.

…

John, in his flannels, cozy and comfortable is reading the morning paper, thanking the god of yearend personal days for letting him have a Friday off. Work at the surgery has been so unbearably slow lately that all John really does there anymore is paperwork and differentials. Sarah hasn't been terribly friendly either, since John broke it off. So, John supposes that what he's doing is technically hiding and cowering, but he's pretty certain that Sherlock won't say anything.

Sherlock is out. He's had a flourish of business lately, the lucky sod. There's been no end of people knocking down their front door ever since John's blog became so popular. At first, Sherlock looked ready to throttle John. Now, it seems he's rethinking things a bit.

The floorboards in the next room groan, as the occupant grunts and stumbles. Ah, so Sherlock is in. Unlike him to be so quiet for so long. In his blue dressing gown, the man staggers into the front room like a well-hungover king.

"Pops." And demands breakfast.

"Get it yourself," John says, flipping his paper around in agitation.

"Jooooohn," he moans.

"Sherlock," says John, calmly.

"I'm dying." He slings himself over the back of John's chair dramatically.

"Stop it," John says shortly, moving Sherlock's arm from its position dangling over his shoulder.

"I have a tropical disease. Look at my hand."

"Very nice hand, Sherlock. I'm busy, and not on call right now. If you need help, please call for an ambulance."

"I have an ECHO virus."

John puts a hand over his face, calming his trigger temper. Sherlock wants attention, as always, and has come up with a very odd way of trying for it. So, John humors him and finally looks at him where he's fallen spectacularly on the floor. He's rolled on his side away from John as if rejected. John folds up the legrest of his chair and goes to stand over Sherlock. Then toes him over onto his back.

Sherlock's face is covered in spots, as well as his neck and chest. He looks at John smugly. "I don't think that's an ECHO," says John, getting in closer to examine the red spots. "What other symptoms have you got?" John puts a hand to Sherlock's slick forehead. "Besides the fever."

"Soreness. Itchiness. Nausea. Melancholy," Sherlock says like he's reciting a grocery list. Something he has never done, ever.

"Well, I'm not on call today, but if I had to give it my best guess, I'd say you have the chicken pox," says John, standing back up. "Have you got a headache?"

"Don't be absurd, John. I don't have chicken pox. That is a child's disease. This is clearly a tropical virus, of which I will die in a matter of hours. Yes, I have a headache."

"If you never had chicken pox as a kid, then it can also be an adult disease," John tells him. "Go to your bedroom and wait for me there."

Sherlock scoffs. "I'm going to my bedroom, but only so that I can get dressed. I have a missing scarab necklace to find, which outdates the city of London. Just treat my symptoms and let me be."

John gives in far more easily than he ever would normally. "Okay. Go get dressed and I'll bring you some pills."

Sherlock peels himself off the floor and shuffles to the back bedroom. John pauses for a few moments then follows Sherlock and easily traps him, using a heavy chair and a pile of books to hold the door. Then he waits.

Sherlock grasps the door handle and then starts pounding on the door. "John! What! Why did you lock me in here?"

John calls back, his tone allowing no nonsense. "You're in quarantine, Sherlock. You have a very infectious disease, which is fatal in adults almost ninety percent of the time!"

John can almost hear Sherlock's brain trying to calculate things on the other side of the door. "Are you serious?" he cries.

"No, I made that up. Still, you can't be running around getting other people sick," John insists. "Also, I'm going to start you on acyclovir and aspirin. Lie down in the bed and wait."

As John is preparing soup in the kitchen, he receives a text.

_You sealed my windows?_

John jabs back, _I sealed all the windows after I woke up with a knife to my throat last week!_

A thoughtful pause. _I'll just break the window pane then._

_That will set off the Mycroft alarm._

_Good. He's never had chicken pox either. I'll spread my illness on to him and he can be miserable for a change._

_And then I'll trap both of you in there for quarantine. Together._

Sherlock doesn't have anything to say to that, so John assures himself of the man's compliance. He takes some soup and wheat toast, which Sherlock will not eat, into the back bedroom, after carefully undoing his sophisticated locking system.

Sherlock is scratching himself.

"Stop that," John warns, placing the tray of food on the side table. He gestures vaguely to the three pills sitting in a little cup next to a bigger cup filled with water.

Sherlock downs the three pills dry, then reaches his hand up the back of his shirt to scratch the most fiendish pock of them all.

"Scratching is going to make it worse," John says, watching Sherlock fidget and growl, rubbing his shoulder against his ear, his nose against his knee, and the tops of his feet together.

"John, this is unbearable. Please kill me, for the love of God," Sherlock says flatly.

"Don't tempt me," John advises. He can't really take much more of Sherlock's agitation. "Sherlock, if you don't quit that, I will strap you down in medical restraints-yes I do have some-and then drown you in calamine lotion."

Sherlock lays still, pondering. "Can I have my laptop?" he asks, with a bit of a whine on the word 'I'.

"What if your laptop catches the pox?"

Sherlock blinks. "Don't be ridiculous." But he isn't certain if John is serious.

"What if your clients catch the pox? That's who you were going to contact, right?"

"John, I need my laptop, if only to discount these wild claims you're making about this illness!" Sherlock snaps.

"Why don't you try to sleep?" asks John. He is moving things around on the tray of food.

"I can't sleep with all this itching," Sherlock groans before succumbing to a vicious fit of scratching.

"I'm going to get the straps…" John says, a half-idle threat.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "I want to have a shower."

"Good, I'll get some porridge and you can have a bath," says John, almost cheerfully.

"Porridge? I'm not hungry."

"You're going to bathe in the porridge, Sherlock. It'll help the itching."

"…stop making things up!"

…

Sherlock sits in a bath of rolled oats and baking soda, knowing that John is having a laugh somewhere. He sinks up to his chin in the admittedly soothing oats and plots a way to give his sickness to Mycroft. Perhaps if he sneezes on an envelope and then mails it…


	18. Humphrey

Summary: Sherlock has a Tamagotchi that he's kept alive for 12 years.

Warnings: None here.

…..

"Don't make me _order _you."

"I'd like to see you try."

It was a conversation the brothers had had before, very familiar territory. An ominous threat that Sherlock knew wouldn't be carried out. John always wondered what the threat was, what Mycroft was holding over Sherlock's head. Military force? Having Sherlock sectioned? Tickle fight? John didn't want to imagine that, but once he started...

Mycroft had a new facial expression this time and John leaned forward in his chair, sensing that something very interesting was about to happen.

"How's Humphrey doing? I trust that he is well," Mycroft said casually.

Sherlock looked up sharply. "Don't you dare."

Mycroft feigned surprise. "I'm just concerned about his wellbeing."

Sherlock put his hand instinctively to his coat pocket. "Mycroft, I'm warning you…"

Mycroft idly looked over his phone, clicking buttons almost randomly. "It would be a shame if, for example, Humphrey suddenly became very sick and you ran out of medicine for him."

Sherlock tensed. John watched the exchange, wondering what the hell was going on. Was Humphrey a child? Or some kind of cat that Mycroft tortured to make him compliant?

Mycroft faked a little gasp, eyes glued to his screen. "What if he suddenly became depressed because you weren't playing with him anymore…oh, what a terrible way to die-suicide."

"Mycroft, I swear to God-"

"Or-perish the thought-some kind of glitch occurred which prevented you from ridding his home of excrement. It would just keep piling up higher and higher until poor Humphrey died of a long, painful infection…"

"All right!" Sherlock yelled. He leapt to his feet, as John watched in great confusion. "I'll do it just…email me the specifics, Mycroft…I'll do it." He seemed so defeated, so miserable.

Mycroft was smiling. "Good. Make certain that you carry out my instructions to the letter. I've sent you the message. Goodbye John. Goodbye _Humphrey_." Mycroft exited the flat merrily.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence while Sherlock checked his email, looking distressed.

Finally, John spoke up. "You know I have to ask…who the hell is Humphrey?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Humphrey is a digital animal that I have been taking care of for the last twelve years, John," he snapped as if it were obvious. "He has never mated with another Tamagotchi, and is a Senior pet. He has required constant vigilance-"

"A Tamagotchi?" John repeated. "You mean one of those key chain things that girls played with in the Nineties?"

"-_constant vigilance _to keep healthy and alive for so long."

"That's why you gave in to Mycroft," John said, wanting to hear the statement out loud. "Because he threatened to kill your Tamagotchi."

"Yes, John," Sherlock growled. "Humphrey is very important to me…not because of sentiment, because of the sheer amount of time I've put into his well-being."

"Okay," John said, nodding far too much. "Excuse me." He went upstairs to have a laugh and to plot Humphrey's kidnapping the next time Sherlock used up all the milk in an experiment.


	19. Natural Reaction

Summary: John makes Sherlock cry.

Warnings: None here.

….

"Okay easy, easy eeeeeaaaasy, shh, I've got you, just hold on….for a second…"

"Ouch! Ouch! That hurts!"

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, but you moved at the last moment right before I, you know, poked you…what did you think would happen?"

"N-not pain like that…"

"Sherlock, you're…you're crying."

"I am not. It's a natural reaction to what you're doing to me."

"You did ask me to do this…do you want to change your mind? It's not too late…"

"No, it needs to be done. And I want you to be the one to do it. Just…go a little slower this time, please…I'll try not to tense up and flinch."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry that I hurt you before. I'll be careful. Now…shut your eyes…finished. Okay, what do you think?"

Sherlock looked in the mirror at the black lines that had been drawn on his eyelids. "It looks really great, actually. Except that my right eye is all puffy and red."

"I said I'm sorry, Sherlock," John groused. "And we decided that it was partially your fault for flinching."

"Regardless, I think I'm ready to go out now. Just need to find the right dress."

"I can't believe you lightened your hair for this…"

"I didn't. I just stopped darkening-never mind."

"…anyway, I will be watching from across the street to be sure you don't actually get picked up by anyone."

"Thanks for being my pimp tonight, John."

"…you're welcome."


	20. Such Great Heights

Summary: Sherlock and John have both had a bad day.

Warnings: None here.

…..

It was the end of a long day for both of them. John had gone through a board inspection at the surgery and Sherlock had caught his foot on a little something inside the flat, which he couldn't find a second time, no matter that he spent the entire day looking for it. He had nothing to do, had had nothing to do for far too long, and now he'd hurt two of his toes.

John came home, his lower back sore from leaning over his desk all day long, trying his hardest to look busy so that he wouldn't get asked too many questions by the inspectors. He laid his things and papers in a pile on the floor, deciding to leave his shoes and coat there as well.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa on his back, no socks on, the heels of his hands digging into his eye sockets. _He's had a bad day too, _John realized. Deftly, he crossed the room and went knees-first into the sofa next to Sherlock's hip. Sherlock moved one hand slightly from his face to stare blankly at John before covering his eyes again. John straddled Sherlock's waist and took his lover's hands in his, pulling them away from his face and then putting them around his own waist.

Sherlock took a deep, soothing breath and John laid his head on the falling chest. Sherlock rubbed his fingers up and down John's back, massaging over the painful areas. _How does he know? _John wondered. He snaked his arms underneath Sherlock's back to rest his hands on the back of his shoulders, holding him tightly. Their breathing synched, John's chest rising as Sherlock's fell and the comforting rhythm eased their weariness. By 6:30, they were both fast asleep.


	21. Help Me Understand Part 1

Summary: Sherlock has aphasia.

Warnings: None here.

…..

"…and moving around for the last hour. Should wake up any time now." Someone's voice, excited.

"He'll be mad as hell when he does. Poor sod." Another voice, different. Tired, exasperated a little.

The first one had a big sigh. "I don't care. I'm just glad he's going to be waking up. It was really touch and go, especially those first three days..."

"Doc says he's going to be all right? I mean…"

"We won't know until he wakes up, Lestrade."

Lestrade. He knew that name. He made a deep sound in his throat, bringing someone's hand to his arm.

"Sherlock?" That was his name. "It's John. Can you hear me?" Calm, measured, steady John.

He felt himself shift, almost involuntarily, except he had definitely chosen to do it. He was lying on something firm, too firm, and scratchy. Not his own bed. Hospital bed. He was hurt. Why was he hurt?

"John…" he groaned.

"Hey," said John, his voice relieved and verging on ecstatic. "Welcome back, mate. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock blinked his eyes open, then quickly shut them away from the harsh light. He opened them just a sliver and a blurry John filled his vision. He blinked a few times to clear the fuzzy lines away from John.

"Sherlock?"

_Oh. Answer John's question. _"Haven't peg shoulder…no. Good taking…taking…taking…place." He stopped, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Sherlock didn't know why he'd said any of that. He didn't understand why his mouth wasn't cooperating with his brain. He knew what he wanted to say: _I'm fine. What happened? _But something entirely disobedient had come out instead.

John stared at him, and swallowed twice. His look of shock was almost instantly replaced with certainty, assurance. "That's alright, Sherlock. It's probably just lingering aphasia. You got hit in the head, okay?"

Sherlock frowned. _Aphasia. Word confusion. Permanent? Unlikely, but possible. Caused by seizure, brain hemorrhage, tumor, or trauma. _"Grant…filling state. Good. Good….he takes last…" He was ready to throw something by the end of that miserable humiliation. Lestrade was standing behind John, looking like Sherlock was a thing to be pitied. Sherlock was about to throw a cup of water across the room when he noticed more impediments: both his hands were splinted, his fingers taped up together and held static. His little burst of rage was squelched by panic.

"Sherlock. Sherlock. Calm down, okay?" John was saying, rubbing his thumb up and down his arm. "It's temporary, understand? It's not going to stay like this. I need you to tell me that you understand. Nod your head."

Sherlock locked eyes with John and gave a brief nod. He decided to try something simple. _Why. _"Wh-wh-why?" Could've been worse, he decided.

"Do you remember the accident, Sherlock?" Lestrade was questioning him now. Sherlock shook his head. "You were hit by a car. Deliberately. Some maniac drove up onto the sidewalk and took you out. Then he took off."

"Farris…he…he…bottle check…" Sherlock stammered.

Lestrade perked up, taking out a small notebook. "Farris? Farris who?"

Sherlock shook his head in annoyance. "Good…good…no…quiet cal."

"Lestrade, will you give it a rest, please?" John asked. "This can wait." He pulled up a heavy wooden chair next to the bed. Lestrade excused himself solemnly.

John and Sherlock watched one another for a few moments. "I'm so glad that you're…" John felt his eyes sting. "You have no idea how worried I was, Sherlock…" He hastened to meet Sherlock's lips with his and kissed him softly and languidly.

When he pulled away, Sherlock wanted to tell him that he was sorry for making him worry. He wanted to say that he knew who had run him over in the car, and that it certainly wasn't anyone named Farris. He wanted to tell John that he wanted another kiss, but all that he could force out was more nonsense.

"It's all right," John assured him. "Just humour me for a few minutes, hmm?" Sherlock nodded slowly. "Okay, tell me your name."

Sherlock scoffed at that. Of course he knew his own name. But, could he get his mouth to say it? "John. No-no…Hol-Holmes."

"Good," John said. "And first name."

Sherlock made a face. "…can't."

"Yes you can," John insisted. "What is your first name?"

Sherlock had never felt so frustrated in all his life, but he couldn't take it out on calm, patient John, who only wanted to help. Especially since his only course of action would be to roll over and sulk. So, he tried. "Ch-ch…no. Chu…no…Chel-Chek-Chi…" Sherlock began to shake his head violently.

John tried to extinguish him before he became a fireball. "Okay. That's fine, Sherlock. Don't worry. It'll come in time."

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose and laid back against his pillows quietly.

….

"This is why, Sherlock, that I must insist you stop this independence fad you're undertaking. Allow my resources to afford you a little protection. There is no need to be so rebellious after all these years." Mycroft. Didn't he have someone else's life to overthrow?

Sherlock just glared, not going to attempt to snap back at his brother with his unpredictable vocabulary.

"I assume you have some idea as to the person who ran you down," Mycroft stated. Sherlock nodded. "They tell me that you've tried typing with thumbs. It was just as disorderly as your thoughts?" Sherlock nodded again, remembering with great frustration how he'd tried typing out a simple sentence, then just a singular word, only to find that his digits were as uncooperative as his mouth.

Mycroft finally ceased his endless pacing and plopped himself into the chair John had abandoned. Mycroft had insisted that John leave for this little "family chat."

"Would you like to try telling me?" Mycroft asked, in what for Mycroft passed as a calm, sensitive tone.

Sherlock said a clipped, "No."

"Perhaps I will be able to interpret, Sherlock," Mycroft offered. "After all, we practically had our own language as children."

Sherlock sighed. "Raps children."

…

As Sherlock could have predicted, Mycroft couldn't make any sense out of what Sherlock tried to say. John was allowed back into the room.

"Sorry about that," John said sitting down. "We should put a bell on your brother to warn us when he's getting near."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow mirthfully.

John's expression sobered. "I'll try my best, Sherlock, to understand you. Don't know how good at it I'll be, but…I want to help. I want to hunt this guy down myself and poke holes in his eyes…"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Make salt off of table."

John swallowed. He looked into Sherlock's eyes and tried to read into them what Sherlock could undoubtedly read into his.

…

To be continued. :D


	22. Help Me Understand Part 2

Summary: Sherlock has aphasia.

Warnings: Very very fluffy.

….

John was flipping through channels on the small television in the room, having instructed Sherlock to rest for awhile. Sherlock was watching through half-lidded eyes as the pictures on the screen focused and faded. The pain in his head was beginning to be nearly intolerable. It was all concentrated on the left side, which he pressed into his firm pillow trying to relieve the pressure. His hands were hurting as well, starting to burn and sting where bones were broken or dislocated. Also, an interesting pain on the right side of his body, which no one had bothered to explain to him, was starting to nauseate him.

It was getting to be too much. He was going to have to tell John. He rolled slightly back over to the right and decided to get his lover's attention. Of course, John would probably get it if Sherlock just groaned and indicated his head. But Sherlock wanted to communicate more than anything with his fleeting vocabulary.

Schooling his face to get rid of any traces of pain, Sherlock cleared his throat. John instantly looked over and muted the telly, smiling. "What's up, Sherlock?"

So far, if Sherlock's assumption was correct, he had been able to communicate best with simple words, which he was already very familiar with, words that had been part of his language since childhood. Those were the words that he could form at will without stumbling too badly. _Simple. Simple is best, _he instructed himself. "John…felt battery…no." He'd meant to merely say _hurt _but couldn't. He tried for even simpler. "Ouch. John, ouch."

John sat up to attention. "Are you in pain, Sherlock?" he asked, concerned. Sherlock nodded gently, not wanting to move his head too much. John's hand was instantly stroking his brow and Sherlock allowed his face to melt back into its pained grimace. John's expression similarly turned to pain and after a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead, he left to find a nurse.

When John returned, Sherlock had broken out into a sweat and was pressing the bulk of his arm into his right side, while lying on his left. John rubbed his back until his nurse came in to deliver a sedative and painkiller.

….

Several hours later, hazy awareness was beckoning Sherlock to come back. A tug at his arm was pulling him to swim up to the surface, away from the dark depths. He opened his eyes to fire and quickly shut them back, seeing red spots dancing around his eyelids.

"Hey, Sherlock," said John very casually. Very tiredly.

Sherlock blinked his eyes back open to settle them onto John's face, held up by his hand. He cleared his throat cautiously, wondering if the nap had cured his aphasia. "Cuddle pop you…" Too much to hope for. Too soon.

John's mouth turned into a frighteningly happy oval as Sherlock's face turned red. "I know you didn't mean to say that, but…it was so cute!" Sherlock rolled his eyes as John attempted to give him a hug around all the injuries and tubes and wires.

Sherlock took a breath and let it go. John had told him he needed to learn to laugh at himself, and while he wasn't going to do it, he could compromise and let John laugh at him. Most people laughed at him and then sometimes came to respect him. John had respected him first, then loved him, and then later started laughing at him. It was the most comforting, natural feeling Sherlock had ever been privileged.

John leaned back, leaving his hand rubbing up and down Sherlock's arm. "You know what I'm going to try to get you to do, right?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. "Okay. Do you know the man who tried to kill you?"

Sherlock sighed. "Girl."

John nodded slowly. "Okay, the name has something to do with 'Girl,' or sounds like 'Girl…' Or wait, it was a girl-a woman who tried to run you over?"

Sherlock met John's eyes immediately and nodded. He couldn't believe John had managed that. "Yes," he said with determination.

John looked excited. "Okay, so a woman involved in a recent case?" Sherlock nodded. "Someone you were unable to help…no, I don't believe there's ever been a case where you didn't help." He smiled fondly at Sherlock. "A woman that you got into trouble, then…"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Um…can't. Um…" He lowered his head and put his palms at each of his temples, trying to focus and think. "Man. Listen…man." John stared in apologetic confusion. Sherlock made a frustrated noise. _Simple simple…_ "Man work-girl mad." Sherlock sighed at himself, wishing he could crawl underneath his blankets and perish right at that moment.

But John got it. "Okay, her husband, her boyfriend did something, and you found him out, got him sent to prison. And she was after revenge."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open slightly and then he smiled. "Yes. Good, John."

John beamed. "That shouldn't be too difficult for Lestrade to figure out then."

….

Lynda Messenger was arrested for attempting to murder Sherlock only days after he succeeded in communicating with John. A month later, and with speech therapy and infinite patience from his teacher, and lover, Sherlock was back to his normal self-important vocabulary. But occasionally he would go quiet, to make John try to read his mind.


	23. Staring Down the Barrel Part 1

Summary: Sherlock is overpowered when he tries to investigate on his own.

Warnings: Non-con and violence.

...

Sherlock truly hated it when Lestrade was right. He could hear the DI's voice at the back of his mind shouting at him as the blows being delivered to his chest and face started to overpower him. _"I told you to wait for the all__-__clear, Sherlock."_ As his knees buckled and his body fell to the ground, the voice became even louder, so much that it was drowning out the cursing and laughing of the four thugs kicking the shit out of him. _"Sherlock, why can't you ever listen to me? For God's sake, it isn't your place…" _Sherlock felt three large pairs of hands holding him down, pushing his face into the cement floor of the basement as a couple of other, swifter hands wound some kind of thin rope around his wrists. _Clinch knot, _he thought abstractly. _Nice, but simple to slip out of._

Then there was an ear-splitting tearing noise when the fourth gentleman ripped open a roll of some kind of tape. It became somewhat difficult to breathe when his arms were wrenched up at an unusual angle, and his elbows pressed together and taped up. It was reminiscent of a very soothing yoga position, but without any proper build-up or correct breathing.

His ankles were taped together, and there were sounds of approval all around. Sherlock felt as if his head was filled with liquid or gelatin, and he really could have done with a nap. And if the ruffians who had just subdued him had any objections to that, they didn't say so.

…

"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up. Sherrrrrrlock."

His head shot through with cotton wool and stabbing pains, Sherlock slowly became conscious. He sniffled, feeling a trickle of liquid running out of his nose, deciding it was blood from the heavy smell. His eyes fluttered painfully, sending subsidiaries of his migraine across his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. His instinct was to press his palms over his eye sockets and find a quiet, dark spot to wait out the nausea. However, he soon found that he was restrained in all sorts of ways, lying flat on his back, and realized that there was a memory lapse there somewhere.

"He's coming round," said someone, the same person who had been calling his name.

Sherlock finally cracked open his eyes, thankful for the poor lighting of the - cellar? basement? - whatever it was, the cold, dark underground. There was a man leaning over him, checking something on his mobile - e-mail probably, going by the way he was scrolling and clicking. He felt the absence of his own phone's familiar weight and wondered what had become of it.

Sherlock cleared his throat and then groaned in distaste as he realized there was a cloth filling his mouth and tied around the back of his head. That was definitely adding to his headache.

The man standing over him put his phone away and grinned. "Yeah, sorry about that, but I couldn't have you disturbing the customers," he said.

Sherlock swallowed compulsively. _Customers? This could be very, very bad. Prostitution? Sex trafficking? _In his chosen career, Sherlock had been exposed to criminals who dabbled in sex slave trading. He had seen victims who were rescued, who the paramedics called "survivors." But Sherlock had only seen defeat and tears and blankness on their faces that conveyed their hopelessness.

He was starting to breathe too harshly. He ordered himself to study the man in front of him and deduce his motivations and background. Mid-forties, about 1.7 meters, but difficult to tell when the man was squatting; falling behind on his exercise routine, eating on the go too much and therefore putting on weight; grime under his fingernails suggested that he worked outdoors, but the otherwise perfect manicure gave him away.

It all came back to Sherlock in a flash, and he hid away a relieved sigh. This was Thomas Keller, the man he'd been pursuing - the brother of Roger Keller, who was wanted for killing five accountants. The murdering of the two Kellers had been extremely elusive, so Sherlock had taken a different approach and gone after Thomas, his brother. Thomas Keller lived in the flat above a Thai restaurant, which Sherlock had been trying to sneak into when he'd been ambushed. The "customers" Thomas had mentioned were simply diners in the upstairs eatery.

Thomas traced Sherlock's prominent collarbone with his index finger affectionately. Sherlock deliberately didn't react. He began to covertly work on the thin rope around his wrists. "I'm going to take away the gag, but if you say anything louder than a whisper…" He pulled out a gun (HK45 with a Gemtech suppressor, complete overkill) and pressed it against Sherlock's chest, letting the threat hang in the air. Thomas laid the gun down on Sherlock's chest, barrel resting against his throat. He retrieved a pocketknife from his side and slid it underneath the gag, flat against Sherlock's cheek. As the sharp end rose dangerously near to his eye, the blade was turned and used to slice through the cloth, which fell to the floor. Thomas's fingers ghosted across Sherlock's lips as he closed the knife. Thomas then backed away and before Sherlock could blink, a bottle of water was emptied over his face, some of the liquid soothing his dry mouth, but most of it burning his sinuses. He coughed and spluttered for a second, glaring at the man who was heading back to the shadows.

"Now, Sherlock, I want to untie you and let you go," said Thomas, "or at least leave you where your police friends will eventually find you…but here's the problem: Rog is my baby brother, and I don't like you going after him."

Sherlock stared back at the man and forced himself to speak in a low voice. "Your 'baby brother' killed five people." It was difficult to slip out of the rope when his own weight was lying on top of his hands. Even if he did manage to get out of the ropes, he would still have the gaffer tape to deal with.

"Family is forever, Sherlock."

"Unfortunately."

"In any case, I think you're going to just stay here and keep me company until I know Roger is safely hidden away," said Thomas, pulling up a chair and resting his feet on Sherlock like an ottoman.

Sherlock glanced at the man's shoes (stepped in mud at Northampton, going by the unique smell) and his right trouser leg (money troubles, fraying edges, rolled up, can't afford tailoring). Uninteresting. "So, I take it Baby Roger is leaving the country," Sherlock said. Thomas snorted. "Russia is dreadfully cold this time of year." The man frowned at that and jabbed his left heel into Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock grunted but went on talking. "The authorities in St. Petersburg will have no trouble finding a man matching your brother's description, that is, if he doesn't cross someone and get himself killed before that…"

"Shut the hell up," said Thomas, fidgeting with the safety on his gun. He was very close to making a mistake. Sherlock kept bluffing.

"All I have to do is get a peek at his flat, and I'll know exactly where he's staying. You should tell him to call it off and save him the trouble."

Thomas removed his feet from Sherlock's ribs and knelt on the floor next to him. "If you fucking go after him again…" he said, leaving the threat hanging again, sticking the gun under Sherlock's chin.

"If you add murder to abduction, the police will be hot on your trail as well," Sherlock said coolly. "And you're much easier to find than your brother. I'd bet you'll give away Roger's location the instant they put you in handcuffs -"

A hand over his mouth silenced him. Thomas squeezed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek, his eyes raging. Something seemed to come over his expression, softening it, as he stared into Sherlock's eyes, bright with defiance and wide with apprehension.

Thomas released Sherlock, who watched his movements, gauging his next action. "Boys, give us some privacy," said Thomas. The four men who had beaten Sherlock into submission earlier left the room. Thomas leaned back casually, back to toying with his gun. "It's a shame that no one's ever taught you how to use that filthy mouth," he said.

Sherlock's wrists were chafed from rubbing against the ropes. He had been shifting his legs to figure out what it would take to free his ankles from the tape there. It didn't look promising, and it certainly wasn't going to be easy to free his elbows.

The back of Thomas's hand suddenly struck him across the face, and Sherlock turned with the blow. Before he could regain his wits, Thomas was straddling his chest and striking him again, with his fist closed this time. Sherlock opened his mouth to utter a curse, and had the unpleasant sensation of something being jammed hard into his mouth, the object knocking against his teeth painfully. Sherlock instinctively closed his eyes, trying to determine what the long, metallic object was.

A loud _click_ sounded in the empty room. Thomas taking the safety off his gun. The taste of steel and aluminum, and the sensation of an object touching the back of his throat. "I want you," said Thomas, quietly, "to suck on my gun, just like it was your boyfriend's dick."

Sherlock opened his eyes and bit the barrel of the gun. He could barely reach the tip of the front sight, even though the suppressor was jammed full against the back of his throat. He snarled at Thomas, grinding his teeth against the intrusion. Thomas smiled affectionately and thrust his gun forward, making Sherlock gag and lose the weak grip he had with his teeth. Sherlock forced himself to stop trying to swallow, which only left coughing as a way of dealing with the situation.

"Stick your tongue out," said Thomas. Sherlock obeyed, seeing no alternative as the unbalanced man's finger was tightening against the trigger. "Lick the shaft," Thomas instructed, beginning to rub himself through his trousers.

Sherlock shuddered, but did what the man asked, feeling around the suppressor and the edge of the barrel with his tongue. "No teeth," Thomas added, unzipping to free himself. Sherlock choked and gagged on the solid object, the metal beginning to taste acidic and strong. He jolted back involuntarily as Thomas forced the gun deeper into his throat. The man halted his furious stroking of himself to hold Sherlock's head still as he pressed the gun farther into his throat. Sherlock began to panic, unable to breathe, unable to get any air, not knowing if it was because his airway was blocked, or if he simply couldn't breathe because he was panicking.

Finally, just as Sherlock was beginning to get light-headed, Thomas pulled the gun away and finished himself off, angling himself upward so that his substance gushed out over Sherlock's face, across his eyes and into his gasping mouth. Thomas's breath shuddered when he leaned back, looking very pleased with himself. Sherlock allowed himself to cry, hoping that his tears would help to clean the disgusting mess from his face.


	24. Staring Down the Barrel Part 2

Summary: Sherlock is recovering from an attack.

Warnings: Non-con, violence

…

A day later, Sally Donovan called John tersely to come and "claim the freak" at Scotland Yard. John bundled himself up and caught a cab, wondering what Sherlock had done to piss them off this time.

Lestrade met him at the door to his office. He looked agitated and troubled, which was a very natural look for Lestrade.

"Two officers found him this morning, wandering around Battersea Park," Lestrade said.

John nodded. "Well, can I see him, then?" He moved to go past Lestrade, but was stopped.

"John, he's a little off, moving really slowly but won't let us check for any injuries. I…didn't know what to do with him, so I thought you could help."

John stared at the man and took a shuddering breath. His heart rate escalated as he began to fear for his flat mate. "Okay, you're starting to freak me out. Can I just see him, please?"

Lestrade gave a nod and opened his office door, allowing John to go in. Sherlock was sitting in a chair against the wall, his legs pulled up onto the chair and held against his chest. John's stomach twisted into knots and his breath caught in his chest seeing his friend in such a state. His clinical mind took over as anger and panic bubbled loudly below the surface. He began to catalogue the visible injuries that Sherlock had: bruising under an eye and around the mouth, across his cheek, scratches and a torn eyebrow; slightly slumped to the left, which could indicate internal problems, or just exhaustion; defensive injuries on his hands, red marks around his wrists. He was gripping the orange blanket around his shoulders like it was a life preserver.

John got closer and saw where tears had left red blotches on his friend's face. Whatever had happened, it must have been very recent (and painful) for Sherlock to be reacting this way.

Sherlock was staring at the ground. "Sherlock," John said. The man didn't move, except for a twitching around his eyes. John assumed he was being ignored then. "Sherlock, can you talk to me, please?"

"No," was the unexpected whisper, sounding gravelly like a long-time smoker.

John watched and assessed and didn't like his conclusions. The man was trembling, crying, and sounded like he'd either been screaming or… "Let's go home, Sherlock," John said softly. "Can we go home now, please?"

A minute passed as Sherlock appeared to mull this over. Finally he nodded, and John silently released his breath. "Do you need some help?" he asked. Sherlock had already started to force himself out of the chair, and John took that as a no.

Once Sherlock was on his feet, John led the way to the door. Glancing back, he saw that Sherlock was moving very slowly. He had a slight limp on the left side and struggled a few times to keep from stepping on his blanket and tripping himself. Lestrade went to his side and leaned over to gather the blanket so that it wasn't dragging on the floor.

Sherlock didn't acknowledge the help, not even to protest that he didn't want it. John could have kicked himself for telling Sherlock he'd take him home. Clearly, he needed the A&E, or at least a quick exam in the police sickbay. However, Sherlock wanted to go home, and John wasn't going to try to win any arguments with him.

"Do you want to get a cab home, Sherlock?" John asked, wondering if he was doing okay, if he was saying the right things.

Sherlock didn't answer.

Lestrade put a hand on the detective's back, and to John's surprise, Sherlock allowed it. "I'll give you a ride in my car, hmm? Not the black-and-white, my own car."

"Thanks, Lestrade," John breathed. "Is that okay with you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded and started toward the exit. Lestrade ran on ahead to pull his car around to the front kerb. John took his place holding on to the dragging blanket and put a steadying hand to Sherlock's back. He couldn't ignore the officers' stares as well as Sherlock appeared to. Donovan was sipping her coffee non-stop, and even Anderson looked a little green, writing something on a memo board. Others, less familiar faces, had pitying looks and gaped as if astounded.

It took nearly five minutes for Sherlock to walk out to the front.

….

On the ride back to Baker Street, Sherlock slumped into the left side of the car, scrunching up as far away from John as possible. John had debated whether to put Sherlock up with Lestrade, or to put him in the back. Then, once Sherlock had put himself in the back seat, John had wondered whether to get back there with him or to give him some space. He had the distinct feeling that whatever he did, it would be the wrong thing.

Lestrade drove them in silence, his pace a little slower than usual. John tried his best not to look at Sherlock, not to stare and assume things he had no business assuming.

"I didn't think he would know my name," Sherlock said suddenly, causing John to jump, and Lestrade to glance at his rear view mirror. His voice was rough and scratchy and dry. There was a long, uncomfortable pause before he added, "He did."

John swallowed in sympathy with Sherlock's destroyed voice. He couldn't help but look at the man now, watching his eyes and the trembling across his lips. Would he say more? Did he want John to say something?

"Stupid. Again," Sherlock said finally, before burrowing even farther into the side of the car, signifying that he was done talking.

So, Sherlock was beating himself up because he'd been surprised. He'd been very aloof about his most recent case, but there had been no suggestion that he'd be doing anything more dangerous than usual. But John began to wonder if something worse than a beating had occurred, and he felt sick. His thoughts turned bleaker, imagining several gruesome scenarios that Sherlock may have walked into.

John leaned back against his seat to stare out the window, trying to remember his training for different types of trauma victims…_not victim, definitely not a victim. A survivor._

…

It was torture getting him up the stairs. But Sherlock was persistent and kept going, despite it taking him a full minute to go up each step. It was painful for John to watch, but Sherlock made it very clear that he didn't want to be carried. Whether that was because of his pride or a fear that being picked up would hurt him worse wouldn't be revealed until John could examine him properly.

When he was finally able to drag himself into the living room, Sherlock crumpled little by little onto the sofa. He pulled his blanket around himself carefully and closed his eyes.

John pulled Lestrade out into the hall. "What happened to him?" he demanded in a furious whisper.

Lestrade looked blank, then apologetic. "I don't know. He didn't say anything at all until just now in the car. And like I told you, they found him at Battersea Park this morning."

"Didn't you have someone check him over?" said John. "He's walking like he got hit by a bus."

"Yeah, and he wouldn't let anyone near him—especially not me. I thought it was best to call you than to get emergency services involved, 'cause they'd probably have to sedate him." Lestrade's voice raised a little as he poured out his frustration and fears to John. He took a small breath, watching John's face. "I'm sorry. I hope he'll be okay…"

John nodded and saw Lestrade to the door. He went back upstairs where Sherlock was sleeping, his head fallen at an awkward angle. John stealthily rearranged the cushions to better support Sherlock's neck. He felt the warm forehead, finding the temperature acceptable. John decided to let his friend sleep awhile, tucking and straightening the blankets and then sitting across from him in a chair.

….

Half an hour later, Sherlock woke up choking and crying. John kept himself in his chair, allowing Sherlock a moment to calm down.

"Hey," John said softly. "Can I get you a drink? Some water?"

Sherlock sat up against the arm of the sofa, pulling his blanket up to his chin. He looked at John after wiping his tears away on his shoulder. He nodded.

John got to his feet. "Do you want something to eat too?" Sherlock shook his head, so John just brought him a cup of water. One of Sherlock's arms snaked out of the blanket to take the cup, revealing tears in his shirtsleeve. John noted the damage there and sat next to his friend on the sofa, giving him time to take in some water.

Sherlock took his time, seeming to want to hold off whatever conversation John needed to have with him. He handed the cup back to John when he finished.

John cleared his throat. "Is anything broken or bleeding?" he asked. He wanted to be direct and clinical before discussing the more difficult matters.

"Ribs," Sherlock said. "Don't think they're broken, but maybe…"

"Okay," John said gently. "Is that why you're walking so slowly?"

Sherlock shook his head, looking down. "I just want to get to bed," he whispered.

John nodded. "Of course. I'll just go and make sure everything's cleared off it, shall I?"

"Can I take off my shoes?" Sherlock wondered, stopping John in his tracks.

He almost laughed. "Yes, Sherlock. Of course you can take off your shoes. Do you need help?"

"No."

"Right." John didn't stay to watch Sherlock bend over slowly and miserably. He went into the back bedroom and cleared away all the weird things taking up space in Sherlock's bed including, but not limited to, a book of Sudoku and a bottle of algae.

He came back to find that Sherlock had successfully been able to remove his shoes and place them neatly at the end of the sofa. "Do you still want to get to bed?"

Sherlock pushed his legs to the floor and tried to rise. This time, John went to his side to assist. "Come on, it's me," said John when Sherlock looked uncertain. "I want to help you."

They walked into the bedroom, where John had turned down the covers on the bed. "Here, let me take this nasty sterile thing," John said, referring to the police issue blanket Sherlock was clinging to. The detective didn't make any objection as John began to pull it away. Exposing the range of injuries and the amount of blood clinging to his friend's clothing made John's own blood boil as he thought of the many ways he'd like to kill the person responsible for all this. He clutched the blanket in his fists, trying not to fall victim to his rage. Besides which, Sherlock was struggling to get himself into bed, and John knew that he was needed.

"Hey," he said, "do you want to get into some different clothes there, mate?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded, prostrating himself across the bed and tentatively unbuttoning his shirt. John meanwhile went to look through Sherlock's chest of drawers for a pair of Sherlock's loose-fitting pyjamas. Sherlock had managed to pull open his shirt and lay panting. John's clinical eye roved across the bruising pattern that indicated a cracked rib at the least. What was most concerning was the streak of black and purple staining Sherlock's right side.

John continued to inspect the ugly mark, which started at the armpit and went below the trousers, while he helped Sherlock out of his shirt and into a T-shirt. They were fewer injuries on the lower half, save for bruises and scrapes around the knees.

Sherlock was a gasping mess by the time he was fully changed into pyjamas. John asked him if he needed any more water, anything at all, but Sherlock shook his head.

"If you need something, just yell, or send a text," John said. "I'll be just in the other room."

"Phone's gone," Sherlock wheezed.

"Stolen?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, his eyes closed. That made the decision for John. He pulled a chair up next to the bed to watch over his friend. In the morning, there would be questions. For now, Sherlock needed rest.


	25. Staring Down the Barrel Part 3

Summary: Sherlock finally accepts (a little) help.

Warnings: Non-con, violence (in previous chapters)

...

John got the fright of his life the next morning. He'd ended up stretching out on the floor when it had become clear he was going to fall asleep in his chair and possibly wind up on the floor anyway. He woke up as sunlight feathered through the open blinds and across his forehead.

John got up straight away, needing to see if the night's rest had helped Sherlock in any way. John flinched back seeing that Sherlock's eyes were wide open and fixed upon the ceiling.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John said at last, with a breath of nervous laughter. Sherlock was gripping the bed sheets. John put a hand on the twitching shoulder to anchor him. Sherlock was stiff as a board and the doctor in John started to panic, his thoughts jumping immediately to catatonia.

He got onto the bed next to him and put his hands on either shoulder. "Sherlock, stop it, listen to me. It's John. Can you hear me?"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly tracked him and he gasped. "John…" His voice sounded worse than it had the day before even, but John wasn't going to get picky about a thing like that.

"What were you doing?" his own voice shaking.

Sherlock scoffed. "Sleeping."

"Right," John said, as he slid off the man. "Nightmare?" he guessed.

Sherlock closed his eyes. His jaw clenched, and he pulled the sheet up to his throat. John leaned back a little, giving him time. When he was about to engage with Sherlock to start asking questions, Mrs. Hudson's voice called to them from the living room.

John left Sherlock's bedroom to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the entryway, holding a basket. "This was delivered for Sherlock," she said. "It isn't his birthday, is it? If it is, I'll get started on a cake right away!"

John smiled and inspected the basket, which held a dozen apple streusel muffins, arranged around a BlackBerry, which was tied with a red ribbon. "No, it isn't his birthday, Mrs. Hudson." He read the small tag and nodded. "Yeah, this is from his brother. Strange way of checking up on Sherlock, you see."

Mrs. Hudson nodded knowingly. "My older sister once sent me a cat, so I know how it is."

John stared, blinked and smiled. "I'll see you later, Mrs. Hudson." He closed the door and wondered if Sherlock would care for the muffins, or trust that the phone wasn't tapped, which of course it was. He brought the basket into the bedroom anyway, hoping that a little brotherly annoyance would snap Sherlock back to himself. At least a little.

The man looked as though he could shrivel up and fall through a crack in the floor. John set the muffins on the bedside table and felt Sherlock's forehead. Still acceptable.

"Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled, glaring at the basket. "Thank God he sent that, otherwise I wouldn't be so obviously restored to good health."

John snorted. "Well, I'm not going to turn down a breakfast muffin…-wish we had milk, though." He unwrapped one of the crumbly cakes and took a bite. "These are really good. Want one?"

"It'll get crumbs in my bed." Everything about Sherlock, his voice, his lack of movements was completely lethargic and dulled.

"Yesterday there was an old bowl of noodles in your bed."

"I was going to get to it eventually."

John set his muffin down, having finished a little over half of it. "How are you feeling this morning? Pain any worse?"

Sherlock stared vapidly.

"You have to talk to me," John insisted. "I have to know what's going on with you so I can help you."

"Don't want help." Sherlock stuffed his face into his pillow.

John rolled his eyes. "I know. But you probably need it, don't you think?"

Sherlock turned his face back to John. "Tea would be helpful for my throat." He said the last word delicately, as though it were being used to express a secret.

"Okay. Want honey in it?" John asked. At Sherlock's agreement, he left to briefly brew a pot of tea and prepared a lemon as well.

…

Sherlock sipped his tea and even had a bite of John's muffin. He ignored John's flitting around like a mother hen with a hurt chick. He had more important thoughts bearing down on him. The right side of his body was just a bruise. Not flesh and muscle. A vast, encompassing bruise. He supposed he'd been lucky to have not sustained a worse injury when he'd been pushed out of the car. His head throbbed, every now and then fading to the background, but always coming back with a thump of nausea. The nausea grew vaster as he drank the tea, every swallow, the movements of his tongue and oesophagus reminding him of what he had been made to do. The emotions tagging along the nausea were a frightening mixture: guilt, shame, exposure, vulnerability, violation, regret, defeat, all of them in the same family of pitiable feelings, but each with its own twist on his psyche.

John's restless shuffling brought him back. "Can we talk about what happened?" John asked, when Sherlock met his eyes.

That was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do. The top five on his list of helpful activities would be taking a shower, brushing his teeth, getting dressed, getting back to work, and forgetting what he'd been put through. John's eyes seemed to insist. Sherlock would talk about it, if only for John's peace of mind. The smaller details being less significant, Sherlock went for the substance of the issue. "I was made to suck on a man's gun while he pleasured himself on top of me."

That seemed to knock the wind right out of John. He forced out breaths and went as pale as death. Sherlock watched him as his mouth hung open like a gasping fish's as he groped for words in his stunned brain. "Sherlock…that's terrible. I'm so…so sorry," John was finally able to say.

Sherlock erupted. "Oh, it's terrible, is it? So glad you're here to tell me, because I had no idea at all!" He set his mug down on the table with a loud clank.

John had the nerve to look kind and compassionate. "It's perfectly normal to feel angry right now. In fact, any emotion you feel is-"

"Don't try stupid bloody therapy on me, John. I won't have it." Sherlock wouldn't let John normalise this for him. What had happened was the complete, rational opposite of normal, and he just wanted to shut it away into a dark box in his mind.

John seemed to settle, looking hurt and uncertain of himself. "How can I help?" he said, finally.

Sherlock swallowed as he thought about the question. He knew that John needed to feel useful, to feel he was valuable. "I want to have a bath," he admitted, choosing this as a small way that John could be helpful.

…

John drew Sherlock a warm bath, having to stop himself from going overboard by lighting a candle. _You're not trying to court him, John, _he insisted to himself. _That would make him uncomfortable._

It was a slow, but steady process to get Sherlock out of bed, out of his sweat-damp clothing and lowered into the bath, but they managed. John grimaced as Sherlock accidentally bumped into the porcelain wall of the shower against his blackened right side. After some cursing, a lot of straining and more patience than John thought he had, Sherlock was up to his chest in a warm, unscented bath.

John was seated upon the closed lid of the toilet, feeling absurdly out of place. He handed Sherlock a wash cloth and waited to be told to take his leave. Instead, much to John's surprise, Sherlock asked if he would help wash his hair.

He used a jug to fill water and then pour it over Sherlock's head, much like his mother had done when John was young. He scrubbed shampoo into the tangly locks, meaning at first to give a light massage, but giving up on that when he hit a tender bump, indicated by Sherlock grunting. He rinsed his friend's hair carefully, managing to get all of the suds out. Sherlock requested a comb, which John used to get out all the knots and snatches.

"Thank you," said Sherlock once John had finished, and his hair was in long, straight tendrils down to his shoulders. "I think I'll soak for a while longer."

John nodded and placed some towels within Sherlock's reach. As an afterthought, he brought in the new BlackBerry so Sherlock could call him when he was prepared to get out. A red light indicated a new message, which Sherlock asked him to read.

"It says, 'Keller apprehended. Both Thomas and Roger. Listen to John. Mycroft,'" John read.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It does not say 'Listen to John.'"

"Yes, it does," John insisted, showing him the screen. Sherlock glanced at it and frowned. "And that means taking things easy, actually eating something with substance in it, which a bite of muffin does not have, and accepting that you need help now and again." He raised his eyebrow with a warning look, daring Sherlock to debate him on anything.

Sherlock didn't have anything to say, so John considered it a victory. He left the phone with the towels and went into the living room to wait for Sherlock to call him again. He kept his own phone on his lap, waiting for it to summon him. He wanted to be there when Sherlock needed him. For now, and for as long as Sherlock would have him.


	26. Namaste

Summary: Sherlock does yoga. John finds this distracting.

Warnings: Sexy yoga and anatomy.

…

When John entered the flat, he didn't see the dagger sticking up from the arm of his chair, nor did he notice that a stack of his mail had been steamed open and flayed out for some unknown purpose. On a more typical day, he may have even paid attention to the lilting sound of a flute being played over iPod speakers. But Sherlock's arse got in the way of all that. Literally.

Long brown shorts, although very loose-fitting otherwise, were stretched taut across the midline of Sherlock's backside, sketching the lines and the obscenely round shape of that particular feature. The man was folded in half at the waist, his hands on the floor, curled around his feet, his hair sticking up around an odd blue headband. John was distracted from cataloguing more of what Sherlock was doing when he noticed the shadow of Sherlock's inner thighs where they attached to the slightly bulging underside of Sherlock's groin. He also had a nice view Sherlock's chiseled arm and chest muscles, as he was wearing only the shorts.

John's brain started to assault him with the message "SEX. NAO," and John had to remind his brain that it needed to keep breathing and stop sending him scary demanding messages.

He casually walked over to the sofa, so that he now had a view of Sherlock's arse from the side (still nice, still very round) and so that Sherlock would notice he'd come in.

Sherlock's eyes open and he grunted ferally. It was more of a greeting than John expected. "What are you doing there?" he had to know.

"_Uttanasana_," Sherlock said, giving the exotic word a deep purring timbre.

"Sorry, what?" said John.

"Standing forward bend. It's yoga," Sherlock said.

"You're very…flexible," John stated.

One of Sherlock's eyebrows (the one closest to John) raised up. "I'd have thought you would already know that." Placing both hands onto the floor, Sherlock stretched his right leg back an impossible distance into a lunge. He took in an audible breath, as he pressed his chest and stomach against his bent left leg. This only helped to amplify John's view of the cleft between Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock's other leg went back to join the right and he held himself steady, like in a push-up. On this move, he exhaled intensely. John began to feel like Sherlock's yoga routine had become a show for his own benefit.

Next Sherlock slid forward on the floor, dragging his belly and thighs across it slowly, his chest lifting up and filling with air once again.

"And my favourite," Sherlock said. "_Adho mukha_." Sherlock sprang back on his feet and pushed himself up like a human triangle on the floor, with his timeless arse serving at the top corner. Sherlock went through a few more moves until he was standing straight. "Would you like to try it?"

"Try what?" John asked breathlessly.

Sherlock winked and lay on his back on the mat. He placed a little green block under his hips and set his feet apart invitingly.

John felt like the luckiest man alive that day.


	27. Ophelia

Summary: Sherlock and John get a chick and a duck.

Warnings: References to animal cruelty.

….

"John, I need your help," beckoned John from the living room. This phrase was uttered with relative frequency at 221B. John had agreed to help with such bizarre situations as Sherlock needing a bowl from a low cabinet, Sherlock's hand getting caught in the drain, and once when he had to help hide a body under the sink.

So it was exciting whenever Sherlock called him in there, simply because John could never anticipate the reason.

This time, Sherlock had a baby chicken on the kitchen table and was petting it on the head with one finger. John was a little confused, but said "Awww. What's that for?"

Sherlock flipped the chick onto his back, its tiny bird-legs kicking madly. "I need you to make an incision down the midline and do a myotomy."

John's jaw dropped. "What? No! Why?" he demanded.

"I'm recreating a crime scene on a very small scale," said Sherlock, petting the chick on its belly, which seemed to calm it. "This chicken represents the victim, whose abdomen was flayed open with some muscle tissue absent."

John moved toward the chick without saying a word and snatched it up, holding it to his chest protectively. "Sherlock, you are not going to mutilate this baby chick! I'll buy you an anatomy doll for God's sakes!"

Sherlock appeared to think this over. "If I take it back to the lab, they'll just use it for some other kind of experiment."

John looked at the tiny yellow head. "Then we'll just keep it," he decided, nodding. "We'll make it a pet."

Sherlock sighed in relief. "Good. I named her Ophelia," he said, going over to the fridge.

John blinked, realizing what Sherlock had done to him. "So you just tricked me," he stated.

Sherlock put a little bowl of food on the table. John put Ophelia next to the bowl, and she began eating immediately. "I knew that you would like her," said Sherlock, "but only if you had to protect her first."

John looked displeased at that, but stroked Ophelia's back with his finger. "So, did you really get her from the lab at Bart's?"

Sherlock nodded. "And they don't just experiment on chicks. It's all sorts of baby birds."

John tutted, "That's terrible."

A loud quacking was heard from the bathroom. John glared at Sherlock who managed to look fascinated at Ophelia's antics skittering across the table.


	28. How does he do that?

Summary: Sherlock is bored and frustrated at work.

Warnings: Unnecessary messing with a body?

….

"Why is the freak here again?" asked one Sally Donovan snappishly.

DI Lestrade turned to her with little patience. "To examine the body, Donovan, what else?"

"He's just _standing_ there playing with his phone," she remarked. "We haven't even got clearance to go into the room _with the body in it _yet."

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who was propped against the wall, clicking on his phone with an indescribable expression. Perhaps mirth. "We're lucky he's stuck around this long," he said finally. "Must be bored."

"Can hear you," Sherlock quipped.

Lestrade sighed and looked over at the closed door where Contamination Control was supposedly making the area "safe for investigation." Apparently, the dead body was suspected of carrying some strange, rare virus. Hence, Sherlock.

"_Woo ooh, woo ooh, ooh ooh…don't trust a ho, never trust a ho, won't trust a ho cause the ho won't trust me," _sprung forth from Donovan's trouser pocket. Sally's eyes bulged comically as she fought with her pocket and her traitorous mobile.

Lestrade frowned. "Sally, I don't have to tell you that that is completely unprofessional…" He was halted in his lecture by a buzzing in his coat pocket, the only warning he got before…

"_I like 'em round and big, and when I'm throwing a gig I just can't help myself, I'm acting like a animal, so here's my scandal. I wanna get ya home and UGH double-up UGH UGH."_

Donovan's eyebrow went up at Lestrade's face turned pink. "You were saying, Sir?" She blinked at her phone. "Freak, why did you call me?"

Lestrade looked at the caller id on his mobile. Sherlock had made the call. "Sherlock, have you been changing our ringtones? How do you even do that?" he demanded. And, an even scarier thought, did Sherlock know about Lestrade and…an individual that that particular ringtone could be referring to?

Sherlock looked up from his phone, an expression of child-like innocence on his face. "What's that, Lestrade?"

The door to the crime scene opened and Anderson popped out, wearing a blue hooded Hazmat suit. "It's ready for you, Sir," he said, taking off his mask.

"_Open the door, get on the floor. Everybody walk the dinosaur…" _announced Anderson's phone.

Lestrade shot a warning glare at Sherlock. "Stop doing that."

"What's he doing now?" asked Anderson, as he pulled out his mobile.

Sherlock exploded into peals of laughter. "I didn't change Anderson's," he said, giddy.

"Didn't change my _what?" _Anderson asked suspiciously.

"Nothing, never mind," said Lestrade. "Sherlock, the body."

Lestrade and Donovan followed the prancing detective into the room. Sherlock knelt beside the man immediately. He was fortiesh, facedown, nice clothes, bad haircut…

"Sally," said Sherlock seriously. "Come and look at this."

Sally, shrugging at Lestrade, went and stooped beside the body. "What is it?"

Sherlock was looking at his phone again. "There's something not right here…look at that bulge in his shirt…it's almost as if…"

Sally lifted the man's arm and bent down low to see what Sherlock was talking about. Suddenly, a humming noise came from the body and Sally had to stop herself from punching it. She managed to gracefully fall back on her arse and scoot away screaming.

"_All we wanna do is eat your brains," _crooned the dead man's mobile.

Sherlock had to put a hand to the floor to keep from toppling himself over with laughter. Lestrade, at a loss on what to do at that point, sent Donovan fuming away.

"Sherlock," he said. "Are you high?"

"Little bit," Sherlock admitted.

Lestrade let out an aggravated sigh. "Where's Dr. Watson? I thought he was supposed to be watching you!"

Sherlock turned his nose up. "He's out with Sarah," he remarked, his voice taking on a very nasal pitch when he said the woman's name.

Lestrade pulled the man to his feet by the scruff of his collar. "Go. Home. Before you join your zombie friend on the floor."

Sherlock skittered away, babbling about "Revenge."

….

Elsewhere, on a quiet street in an elegant bistro, John and Sarah were sharing a dessert, putting a nice cap on their elegant dinner.

As they made googly eyes at each other, and John wondered if he was going to get to sleep in the bed that night, a strange voice started singing from John's pocket.

"_Gay boyfriend, gay boyfriend, I don't really care that you are queer. Gay boyfriend, gay boyfriend, I never feel lonely _when_ you are near. La la la la la la la la la la."_

When the music stopped, John forced himself to look at Sarah. "I honestly…" he struggled to say something that would make him seem composed.

Sarah cleared her throat. "It was so nice of you to take me to dinner, John, but I do have to get going…early-have to work tomorrow-at the place…"

John stared as she nearly stumbled over her own chair in her haste. He looked at his caller id. "_Sherlock_."

….

Meanwhile, in Libya…

Mycroft sat in a high-powered negotiations meeting, making slow but steady progress. Just a few more signatures and he could actually start working. Delegates from 20 nations sat around a table with him, trying to come to a civil agreement.

"_Right about now, the funk soul brother. Check it out now. The funk soul brother…"_

Mycroft broke his pencil in half. _I really am going to kill him this time_.

…

Marill: FUN! So, here is a breakdown of the songs in case anyone isn't sure where they came from.

Sally: "Don't trust me" by 3oh!3

Lestrade: "Baby got back" by Sir Mix-a-lot

Anderson: "Walk the Dinosaur" by Was (Not Was)

The dead man: "re: Your brains" by Jonathan Coulton (by far my favourite)

John: "Gay boyfriend" by The Hazzards

Mycroft: "Rockefeller skank" by Fatboy Slim

Yep. I hope that was enjoyable. XD


	29. The Britain Kittens

John was just waking up. He yawned, showing off his sharp teeth and stretched his back legs shakily until he felt like getting up and walking over to the water bowl. His tiny pink tongue lapped up the room temperature water and he licked his face when he was finished.

He turned back towards the room and looked at the other occupants. It had been three days now since they had all become kittens. Sherlock, who looked quite ridiculous with poofy black fur, had tried to use his oversized paws to Google their condition, but found he couldn't type a coherent word without fingers. The general consensus among the group was that the condition was temporary and that they should carry on until something changed.

Sherlock was not an affiliate of the group consensus. He was completely livid about having to share his flat with the kitten versions of Moriarty and Mycroft. Mostly the kitten version of Mycroft, who was a grey Persian butterball and liked to lick his belly in mixed company. The Moriarty-kitten was a little striped Scottish Fold, who mostly hid underneath the sofa with his bright yellow eyes glinting in the darkness. Lestrade-kitten, a tan and white British Shorthair, was trying to get a good holiday out of his affliction. He enjoyed himself on the windowsill during the sunny hours of the day and took long naps stretched out to his full length. Mycroft had labeled John as a Ragamuffin kitten. John hadn't ever heard of the particular breed, but his fur was orange and fluffy like Sherlock's and he had tiny paws.

Mycroft was sitting straight up on the sofa, surveying the room. "Good morning, John," he said in his prissy voice. "I trust you slept well."

John walked over near him. "Yeah," he replied, as if talking to a Mycroft-kitten was completely ordinary. "Did you have a good rest?"

Mycroft looked down at him, still managing to look a little condescending. "Yes, thank you." He looked as if he might say something more, but suddenly a black blur leapt over the top of the sofa and knocked him to the floor making Mycroft say "Oomph!"

The Sherlock-kitten pinned him to the ground. "I know you know how to fix this," he mewled at his brother.

Mycroft tried to bat him away with his paws. "Stop it, Sherlock! I don't know anything about this! Don't you think I'd want to get myself out of it at least?"

Sherlock's blue eyes narrowed. "Fine," he grumbled and nimbly sprang off his brother and back onto the sofa.

Lestrade walked over and nuzzled Mycroft. "You okay?"

Mycroft sniffed and shook his head. "I'm fine."

Sherlock's tail floated upwards and his ears twitched. "Mrs. Hudson is coming."

"How do you know it's her?" John wondered, ducking behind a chair.

"She has very specific vibrations…and I can hear her. What's it like inside your tiny little cat-brain, John? Have you got even more dull?"

John puffed up in indignation. "No."

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson entered the room carrying a heaping bowl of cat bics. "Hello, sweeties!" she exclaimed. Four kittens, with Sherlock excepted, came running up to her, shouting at her to help them, which to her only sounded like adorable mewing. "Aww, don't worry babies, I'm going to feed you all this tasty kitty food!" She placed the bowl in the centre of the kittens.

Sherlock lunged from the sofa and latched onto Mrs. Hudson's leg with his claws. "Mrs. Hudson! Listen! To! Me!" he cried as she tried to shake him off.

She eventually grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and placed him in between Moriarty and Lestrade. "Now behave today, kitties," she said with fluffy sternness. "Mummy has got to go to her knitting circle this afternoon so she can make hats for all of you." She folded her hands together, imagining all her kittens with little bonnets. She blew them all kisses and then left the flat.

Sherlock sniffed arrogantly at the food and watched while the others gobbled it happily. Then he saw a fly, and he batted it into a corner. Sherlock pounced on the fly and then ate it without thinking. He took a pause, then shrugged it off. He'd probably swallowed lots of insects over the years.

Moriarty left the food bowl and began to lick his paws, wondering how likely it was that he could kill someone as a kitten. Eighteen ways came to mind instantly, and he grinned his little kitten grin, plotting.

Lestrade jumped up onto the windowsill, anticipating an afternoon of sunbathing. Instead, he saw that the sky was clouded and angry. He made himself into a small little bundle and stared out the window. A flash of lightning spooked him, and he ran to hide behind Mycroft who had been sitting there regally, facing in the other direction.

"What's the matter?" asked Mycroft. He turned his head towards the window and saw rain drops splattering against it. His ears flattened against his head and his eyes widened comically. "Oh Lord…I haven't got my umbrella…" He nearly trampled Lestrade in his efforts to hide underneath the kitchen table, where he curled himself into a nervous ball.

Moriarty pranced up to the window, eager to watch the storm brewing. He was content for a few minutes whilst Mycroft, Lestrade and John huddled together fearfully. Then a clap of thunder shook the entire house and Moriarty scurried off to join them under the table.

Sherlock scoffed at them all hiding together like a flock of sheep, afraid of a simple storm. Then Moriarty started to try calming John by licking his fur for him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stalked over, pushing Moriarty out of the way with his head. He plopped down on top of John possessively, pushing all the air out of the little orange kitten. And then he fell asleep.

…

Sherlock shot straight up in his bed, feeling nervously for pointed ears and a tail. Finding neither, he lay himself back down with a sigh of relief. John, also a human being, was sleeping soundly beside him. Sherlock lay back and stared up at the ceiling, wondering at his odd dream. Sherlock supposed it was just one of those non-sequitur dreams with no meaning and little interpretation. He licked the back of his hand started washing his face with it.


	30. Poison Part 1

Summary: Things go wrong when Sherlock and John go out to dinner…

Warnings: None here!

….

John's temper was a fine strand of spaghetti. Sherlock had seemingly boiled it and now he was trying to stretch it out.

"Clear," said in a monotone was followed by a series of loud thumps on the staircase and the walls of the staircase which led to John's bedroom. John had barely a couple of seconds to "clear" himself out of the path of a bowling ball that was bouncing out of control. He flung himself at the left arm of the sofa to avoid the weapon that was crunching glass bottles and old pizza into the rug.

The strand of spaghetti tightened.

"Are you trying to kill me?" John shouted up at his flatmate. The bowling ball rolled to a stop.

Sherlock appeared in the stairwell. "Do you really think that's how I'd do it?"

John's eyebrow lifted. "I don't know. How _would _you do it?"

Sherlock descended airily into the living room. "Well I'm not going to just _tell _you, John." He flopped into the chair, his dressing gown floating down on top of him.

John flicked his paper open to block Sherlock out of his vision. "Mrs. Hudson left at 6 o'clock this morning," he said by way of conversation.

"Thirteen after," said Sherlock. He had folded his hands over his stomach and was staring at the ceiling.

John scanned the job listings. Sherlock's latest case, the one which he was currently decompressing from, had lost John his job at the surgery. Taking a week off to sit in a sewer apparently did not fly with Sarah. Or perhaps she was more peeved at the fact that he had cancelled three of their dates in succession. Regardless, the job and the girlfriend had been pulled out from under him.

And Sherlock was the one complaining. "John, I'm dying," he said quietly. "I can feel every neuron in my brain trying to expand and die."

"Why don't you do a crossword?" John grumbled.

"I stopped doing crosswords when I was five, John," Sherlock said. His arm slipped down to the floor where it hung lifelessly.

John lifted his eyes from his newspaper to peek at the length of Sherlock's forearm. No new marks. That was something. John started reading a listing which said "Experienced Physician Desired," when he heard the telltale sound of a gun being cocked.

"Sherlock…"

"Don't move, John."

With a loud bang, a neat semicircle was torn out of John's paper and a thud announced that the bullet had found its resting place in the windowsill. Sherlock laid the gun on the side table.

The strand of spaghetti snapped.

John crumpled up his paper and tossed it onto the floor. He walked around Sherlock's chair and with a great heave tipped it and the detective over.

Sherlock made a sound something like what John would expect to come from a hen that had been stepped on. Sherlock tried to form some angry words, but ended up spluttering indignantly as John left the room advising, "Get dressed. We're going out."

…

Sherlock had his hands stuffed into his pockets, keeping his upper body utterly still as he walked alongside John, glaring at the city and its inhabitants. John knew that his flatmate was going to wind up in a funk if there wasn't an intervention early on in the end-of-case drag. His plan to keep Sherlock lively and functioning started with going to dinner and then maybe to a pub. It would have to be a slow process or he ran the risk of over-stimulating Sherlock.

John led them to a brightly lit bistro a few streets away from their flat. He was pretty sure that he had never eaten there and wanted to try something new. Sherlock slumped into a booth in the corner while John picked up some menus.

John handed the simple menu to Sherlock as he sat down across from him. "You're going to eat something while we're here," he said, scanning over the restaurant's choices.

Sherlock slapped the paper down onto the table. "Not interested."

"I insist," said John. "I'll even pay." Although it was hardly fair, since Sherlock had just been rewarded with a fairly large sum of money from his latest client. However, if it would get Sherlock to eat and lift his mood a little bit, John was willing to make this small offering, if only for his own comfort later on.

Sherlock didn't budge. "I don't know why you dragged me here. The service is inadequate, going by the tablecloths I'm certain the food is going to be bland, and the chefs are currently in a quarrel which will affect wait time."

"Beats cold cereal," John said, as he finally decided on tomato bisque and a sandwich.

Sherlock was just staring at five people seated in the opposite corner from them, probably deducing what they had ordered or what they had planned for after the meal.

John sighed and laid his menu down. "Sherlock, if you don't eat something," he began, feeling his temper getting a little rattled, "you are going to be difficult to deal with all night. I'm trying to keep our living situation amicable, so if you don't mind keeping up your end of the deal, I would really appreciate it."

Sherlock's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed, but John's expression remained frank. When the waitress finally came over, Sherlock ordered a glass of water and lo mein. John leaned back in his chair and relaxed, giving his friend a grateful smile.

They talked about the case and all of the interesting points that John had missed until their food came. Their mousy waitress filled Sherlock's glass with more water and brought John another beer before she flitted over to her other tables.

Sherlock turned his nose up at his egg noodles after a bite. "It's bitter," he announced, spearing a piece of broccoli to try instead.

John took a spoonful of his soup and found it very creamy and rich. His sandwich was very good as well. This was definitely a place he'd want to try again.

Sherlock finished about half of his food before pushing it away and downing his glass of water. "Vegetables were drenched in spice…" He scrunched his nose in distaste. "The whole thing just tasted off."

John rolled his eyes. "Mine was really good. You just don't want to be agreeable."

Sherlock shrugged and started to rip his napkins into confetti to throw over his plate. John stared at him for a minute before checking his phone for messages. When the waitress came back to clear everything away, Sherlock had covered his plate in white strips of paper. She smiled at him briefly before taking the dishes away and leaving the bill.

As John looked over the bill, Sherlock started giggling at apparently nothing. "What's so funny?" John asked him.

Sherlock's expression turned back to annoyance instantly. "Nothing, John," he snapped. "Can we get on with it?"

John left a few notes on the table and got up. "Right. Remind me never to try cheering you up again," he muttered.

"Is that what this was?" Sherlock demanded, pulling his coat on roughly. His voice was a little high and irate. "A bid to cheer me up? I am not a child that you can take out for ice cream after a bad day at school."

_Could've fooled me, _John thought, but kept it to himself. He was beginning to think that his friend had gone a little manic.

Sherlock's behaviour became even more erratic as they walked home. He alternated between sulking a half-step behind John and running past him to swing around a lamp post.

"Sherlock, do you feel all right?" John asked, as Sherlock completed his spin around the post. John wondered if he was witnessing a breakdown.

Sherlock didn't answer his question. Instead, he broke off into a run, laughing madly as John stood there dumbfounded. John started to jog after him, calling him twice. He turned the corner to find Sherlock bent over and heaving into a shrub.

John knelt down beside him on the ground, putting a hand to his back to support him. Sherlock looked up at John, mouth open, and sick trailing down his chin. "Something's wrong," he said.


	31. Poison Part 2

Summary: Sherlock gets ill after dining out.

Warnings: Discussions of vomit and sickness.

Even though John was very concerned, Sherlock reported that he felt better after throwing up. He still looked a little pale and slightly green, but John assumed that he could have made himself sick just by running around straight after eating. It still didn't seem right, in John's mind, however. Sherlock had barely eaten half a plateful, and the man was certainly used to running around. But if Sherlock said he was fine, John knew there was going to be no point in arguing.

As they walked the few streets home, Sherlock became quieter and walked slightly behind John to the left. John looked over his shoulder as Baker Street came into sight and noticed that Sherlock was walking along with his eyes closed.

John stopped and put a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, stopping him as well. "Hey, what are you doing?" he asked. Sherlock opened his eyes. John looked at him and immediately saw the contracted pupils. "Sherlock, I think we need to get to hospital."

Sherlock violently shook him off. "I just need to have a rest, John," he said wearily. John swallowed. It was really something if Sherlock was admitting to that much.

John followed behind Sherlock this time, not trusting that his friend wouldn't walk into a parked car or something. When Sherlock approached their front door, he gripped the side railing carefully and began to go up the step. When he got inside to the landing, he tipped backwards, and John rushed up behind him to steady him.

"Careful, careful…" John said. "Please don't fall."

"I'm fine," Sherlock grumbled, as he finally stabilised himself.

"Are you going to make it up to the flat?"

….

Sherlock did manage to make it up the stairs quite swiftly, as if to spite John's mother-henning him. He sat himself at their cluttered table, moving aside papers and relics from cases and experiments before he laid his head down and closed his eyes. John put on some green tea hoping that it would be calming and helpful to Sherlock's nausea.

John set the mug of steaming tea next to Sherlock's hand. It appeared that he was sleeping, so John put two fingers to Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse. Sherlock groaned and reached for the mug, sliding it across the table and towards his mouth.

John, satisfied with the pulse rate, sat down at the table to nurse his own mug of tea. "I could be wrong, but I think that'll be easier if you're not lying down on the table."

Sherlock appeared to be too exhausted to glare. He put his arms over his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "Stop looking at me," he said.

John sighed into his tea and turned slightly to the right. He picked up the previous day's paper to scan over the articles on the first few pages while Sherlock sulked.

A couple of beats later, Sherlock rose abruptly from the table and stomped over to the sofa where he flopped himself down with a grunt. "I am on the precipice of death," he announced.

John laid his paper down and washed out his mug in the sink. "I'm going to take a shower. If you need help, text Mrs. Hudson, yeah?" John figured that Sherlock's dramatics were more of a bid for attention than an indication of serious illness. Best not to add fuel to that fire.

He closed the door to the upstairs bathroom, shutting out the sounds of the TV that Sherlock had turned on.

…

When John was finished with his shower, he changed into comfortable clothes and went down to join Sherlock for the news or whatever Sherlock was willing to put up with. He leaned back to plop down in the armchair, but caught himself halfway to sitting when he noticed Sherlock's state. John dashed over to his friend's side and took in the pale, sweating figure. Sherlock had his face turned into the cushions, his mouth open and panting. He had unbuttoned his shirt to mid-chest and had opened it wide to give himself air. John put a hand to his forehead experimentally and felt the above normal heat there.

"Hang on, mate, I'm going to get my medical bag," he said quietly. Sherlock nodded, and John raced up the stairs to grab his things.

When he returned, Sherlock had turned over onto his side facing the room. John knelt beside the sofa, waiting for his thermometer to come on. "You've not been sick so far?" he asked, brushing the hair out of Sherlock's face. Sherlock shook his head and shivered. "Feel like being sick?" He nodded.

The thermometer beeped, and John slid it into Sherlock's open mouth. "Hold it there until it beeps again," he instructed. While they waited for the reading, John looked through his medical kit for Ibuprofen. He came up with an empty bottle. "I swore I had more of this stuff… Sherlock, did you take these without asking?"

When the thermometer gave its reading, Sherlock responded. "I needed it for something."

John examined the temperature reading, shaking his head in worry. "Needed it for what?"

"Can't remember…" Sherlock mumbled, rolling onto his back.

"Your fever is a little distressing, Sherlock," John told him. "I'll see if Mrs. Hudson has any… God, she's out," he realised, feeling sickened. "I'm going to have to make a run to the late chemist." He went over to grab his coat, still in his tracksuit trousers and t-shirt.

Sherlock lay on the sofa, not heeding John's activity. John came back over to him, bringing a few items. "Here, Sherlock, I'm setting your phone right here. If you feel any worse, call me. I'm going to take your debit card just so there's no trouble at the checkout." He laid a thin sheet across his friend's trembling body and set a small room fan on the coffee table next to Sherlock's phone. The final touch was the plastic bin from the bathroom for throwing up in. Sherlock grimaced when John turned on the fan. John smiled apologetically. "Sorry, Sherlock, but we can't risk the fever getting any higher, or you'll have to go to hospital, okay?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to burrow into the sheet. John buttoned his coat up and headed out to buy some medicine.

…

John returned a good hour later, furious and a bit scared. The closest shop to their flat had experienced a power outage, and all the machines were struggling to reboot. He'd caught a cab to the next shop open and wandered around for ages trying to find what he needed. He tried calling Sherlock four times, but never got a response. No replies to his concerned texts either. John hoped the man was sleeping or just ignoring his phone because he was a twat. He didn't want his mind to come up with any other reasons Sherlock wouldn't answer his calls.

John ran up the stairs with his shopping bag to find no Sherlock on the sofa. John started shouting for his flatmate frantically. He ran through the flat, flinging doors open and cursing until he came to Sherlock's bathroom. The light was on.

The smell of sickness hit him instantly, but that wasn't what freaked him out the most. Sherlock was in the bath, wearing only his boxers and a pair of socks. The tub was half- full of ice cubes and water, and the bloody idiot had the room fan pointed at him to make matters worse.

John wordlessly yanked the plug out of the plughole and grabbed Sherlock almost violently. "What were you thinking, Sherlock?" he asked, pulling the man out of the tub. He set him down on the closed lid of the toilet and started rubbing him vigorously with towels. "You could kill yourself doing shit like that. Can I honestly not leave you alone for an hour without…" He paused at the glazed and bewildered look in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock frowned. "You said…keep cold…don't let it get too hot…" Then he threw up on John's lap.

…

John could have sworn the sound Sherlock made was a whimper when he bullied him into his bed. His teeth were too busy chattering to make any sensible protest. After helping him into a pair of dry boxers, John left to change into clean clothes, rushing through cleaning himself off. After that, he brought in the small bin from the living room as well as a full glass of water. He shook out two Ibuprofen and handed them to Sherlock. After they were swallowed, John insisted that he finish the whole glass of water.

Sherlock, still shivering fiercely, pulled his blankets up to his neck. He closed his eyes for all of five seconds before sitting up and saying, "I need the bin."

John quickly picked it up and held it in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock was terribly ill again, sinking into dry heaves by the end of it. John rubbed his back, hoping that it was soothing and not making his friend's nausea worse. Sherlock eventually collapsed back onto his pillow, and John cooled his face with a damp cloth. Sherlock waved him off irritably.

John left to refill the glass of water. Sherlock had his eyes closed when he returned. "I'm going to leave you to rest for a while, all right?" John said, setting the water on the side table. "I'll check on you in just a little while. Do you want some medicine for the nausea before I go?"

Sherlock nodded his head weakly. John felt his forehead to gauge if there had been any improvement in the fever. "Sherlock, I know you don't want to hear this, but we may have to go to hospital…"

Sherlock wheezed and choked on his words. "No. I want to stay…stay right here…please…"

John sighed, but honoured his friend's wishes. It wasn't often that Sherlock asked him something and tagged a "please" onto it. He fetched an antiemetic from his bag and helped Sherlock sit up to take it. As he left, he turned out Sherlock's overhead light and left the door slightly cracked open.

…

John gave a call to Stamford to ask if any viruses had been going around that he was aware of. Unfortunately, his old friend was more than a little drunk and mostly insensible. Chuckling and promising to meet him later in the week for lunch, John hung up.

It was getting to be about midnight, and John thought he could do with a quick nap. He set his alarm for 1:30 so he could shuffle into Sherlock's bedroom for a check later. Not wanting to risk contamination by sleeping on the sofa, he stretched out in his armchair and covered up with an old blanket.

…

It was light outside when John's eyes cracked open. "The fuck…" he mumbled, grabbing up his mobile. He realised he'd set his alarm for the afternoon. He tumbled out of his chair. "Shit, shit…fuck fuck fuck…" He rounded the corner and shoved Sherlock's bedroom door open. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock had thrown his covers off and was covered in his own sweat and sick. John was at his side instantly, trying to rouse him. The detective was breathing in shallow gasps and looked deathly white. John sat him up, not caring about the foulness of the bed and of Sherlock's body. He leaned Sherlock against him and checked for signs of pulmonary aspiration, while taking a pulse.

"Sherlock, are you all right? Speak to me, come on," John said in one breath. The pulse was abnormally fast, but from what John could feel on contact, his temperature had gone down.

Sherlock coughed and shook through a chest spasm, his head lolling down in front of him. John rubbed his arms and said comforting nonsense until his friend's breathing became more regular. A bit more roused, Sherlock laid his head back against John's shoulder and swallowed loudly. "John?" he said.

"You're very sick, Sherlock," John told him, getting an agitated "I know that," in response. "I…" The weight of his guilt was almost crushing him. "I overslept and didn't come in to check on you…God, I'm so sorry…" John knew that he could have very well come into Sherlock's bedroom to find him dead or comatose.

Sherlock opened his eyes and noticed the state of his bed. "Oh God…" he said. "I need to get in the shower…"

John held him back when he started to sit up. "Wait. I need to know how you're feeling."

"Shitty."

"Seriously, Sherlock. What's the nausea like, do you feel dehydrated, all that."

Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath. "I feel like death. But a very sickly death. Like death has just scrambled my intestines. And yes, dehydrated and nauseated." His eyes were half-lidded at best, and he moved his hands restlessly.

"Do we need to get to hospital while you're still sensible?" John asked, a warning tone in his voice.

"I am not going to the hospital unless I've lost a vital body part or I'm spewing blood," Sherlock said. "This-" he lifted his hand to gesture vaguely to his ruined sheets, "-is just food poisoning. Rather unfortunate, but not hospital-worthy."

John snorted, despite his worry. "This is not food poisoning, Sherlock. This is-this is more like deliberate poisoning." Upon saying it, it suddenly made sense. John felt all the blood rush from his head, and he felt terribly cold. "Sherlock, we have to get you to hospital right away."

Sherlock managed to pull himself away from John's grasp and hold himself up on his shaking arms. "Of course I instantly thought that I'd been poisoned intentionally, John. Don't think me to be so obtuse. But of all the persons who could have known I'd be at the restaurant, or who could have followed me without Mycroft's people knowing about it, the chances are very slim that someone could have managed to put something in my food." He looked up at John with a look of seriousness. "And if they were good enough to do all that, the last place I want to be is in a hospital."

John clenched his jaw and pushed down the urge to violently beat anyone who would do this to Sherlock. He nodded his agreement. "All right. But you have to tell me if anything worsens. I want to monitor your symptoms closely. Understand?"

Sherlock smiled a half -smile. "Thank you."

…

John managed to lead Sherlock to the shower. They both knew that a bath would be preferable, as Sherlock had trouble standing, but first they'd have to rinse him off so he wouldn't muck up his own bathwater. It was almost as if Sherlock's legs were filled with lead, it was so difficult to move them over the rim of the tub. Once he was fully in, John turned on the spray. Sherlock washed himself off feebly while John supported him.

Once he was sprayed off to his satisfaction, John turned on the main tap and helped Sherlock to sit down. He leaned back against the wall of the bathtub and settled comfortably.

"I'm going to need to change your sheets," John said, hesitantly. "I'm not going to come back in five minutes and find you drowned, am I?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John, I'm fully awake," Sherlock said snappishly.

John nodded and hoped that that was true. He left to put the soiled bedclothes in the laundry basket. He sprayed the mattress with a disinfectant and opened the windows to let the room air out. He'd just have to keep Sherlock comfortable on their sofa until his bedroom was habitable again.

John peeked into the bathroom on his way to the kitchen. Sherlock's head was still above water, and he hadn't been ill again. Good. He took a bottle of orange juice from the 'fridge to help replenish Sherlock's (and his own) fluids. He felt a small pang of hunger but ignored it faithfully so he could return to Sherlock's aid.

By the time John had poured two glasses of juice, Sherlock was calling him back into the bathroom. John carried one glass with him as he went to see what Sherlock needed.

The man had one long leg sticking out of the bath and both hands pressed against the sides of the tub as if preparing to hoist himself out.

"Problem?" John asked, fighting to keep the smile out of his voice.

Sherlock's nostrils flared. "I'm about to be ill again. Need to make use of the loo."

"Oh, right, of course." John helped him out of the bath and eased him down to kneel in front of the toilet. While Sherlock stared into the water, mouth open but no progress so far, John placed a cotton robe across his shoulders. "Want me to get you more Zofran?"

Sherlock coughed, which resounded in the bowl. "What's the point? I'll just heave it up anyway."

"I may have to start an IV," John said mostly to himself.

Sherlock folded his arms across the lid of the toilet and laid his head there. "A lethal injection, John. That's all I ask for."

John patted him on the back very lightly. "You're going to be all right. I'll get you more anti-nausea pills."

…

Having nothing left to heave up, Sherlock allowed John to lead him through getting dressed and manoeuvering to the sofa. Once settled, John got him to drink the orange juice and takes some more pills. Soon after, he had fallen asleep again, exhausted. John placed the recently cleaned bin next to the sofa and settled in his armchair to wait.


	32. Poison Part 3

Two days later John stepped out of the shower and onto the mat. The room was steamed up and smelled great. It had been a harrowing forty-eight hours of his flatmate heaving, sweating and moaning. Sherlock had been close to hospital-worthy the entire time but he never went over the edge far enough for John to force him to go in. It seemed that Sherlock was finally turning the corner, however, as that morning he'd been able to keep down a decent breakfast. As John dried off, he heard Sherlock talking to someone downstairs and furrowed his brow. He got dressed quickly and padded down the stairs in his socks.

Lestrade was seated in John's armchair across from Sherlock, seeming to enjoy himself. The man laughed as he spoke: "You've got to be joking, Sherlock. Do you really think I'm going to give you the case? Maybe you could have fooled me if we'd spoken over the phone, but really, you should see yourself."

John observed Sherlock. He had propped himself up beside the arm of the sofa and was slanting to his right quite severely. He looked ghastly and fidgeted angrily with his dressing gown. "Fine, I'm ill," he spat. "I can still work the case."

"What's going on here?" asked John.

Lestrade snorted and turned towards him. "I had planned to bring him in on a little case that's been bothering us at the Yard, but he's in no condition to work. Tried to convince me that he was right as rain." He rolled his eyes and chuckled.

Sherlock glowered at them and ripped up a tissue spitefully. "Fine. Take your ridiculous case elsewhere and leave us be."

Lestrade decidedly ignored that and turned to John. "Bet you could use some help around here. I can pawn this off on Donovan, let her try her hands at it. What can I help you with?"

John smiled. "If you could stay here while I do the laundry and go to the shops, that would be a great help, actually," he said.

Sherlock bristled. "I do not require a babysitter. Lestrade, go away."

Lestrade looked at him in faked surprise. "A babysitter? Don't be silly, Sherlock, I'm going to be watching the flat. I'm house-sitting." He smiled, proud of himself.

John left the flat ten minutes later, needing a break from being Sherlock's personal nurse and servant. He trusted Lestrade to keep the young man in line, especially now that Sherlock was on the mend and getting bitchy. Maybe he'd stop off for lunch somewhere. His plans started to fall into place as he got down to the front of the house and went to hail a taxi.

…

"So what can you eat, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, rummaging through the kitchen. Sherlock grumbled something about not being hungry. "Well, I guess you can eat anything I make for you then. Cheese toasty. My specialty." He grinned, getting together the necessary ingredients.

Lestrade made an extra cheesy piece of toast and brewed some tea, then brought both to Sherlock. The detective sniffed in indifference, but took a bite of the toast somewhat eagerly, looking like he hadn't eaten in a good while. The DI sat across from him, sipping at his own tea contemplatively.

"You're lucky to have Dr. Watson, you know," he said, finally. "I don't think I have a single friend who would take care of me for a full three days like he's done." Lestrade couldn't even think of any _family _he had who would sit at his sick bed for more than half an hour to mop his brow.

"He's a doctor. It's his job," Sherlock snapped.

"So you're paying him to wait on you 'round the clock?" Lestrade asked rhetorically. "You know he's doing it because he just cares about you that much. It's rare, Sherlock, and I don't know how you, of all people, managed to latch onto it, but don't just roll your eyes and shrug it off."

Sherlock looked decently chided. He pushed his toast away and took to nursing the tea, seeming to think.

When Sherlock had been quiet for an entire five minutes, Lestrade got up and began cleaning up the flat, mostly moving books and papers onto tables and shelves. By the time John was coming in the door, arms full of shopping, their flat looked more organised than it had the day John moved in.

Giving Lestrade an incredulous look, John unpacked the bags and brought Sherlock a bottle of room temperature ginger tea to settle his stomach. He spied the half-eaten cheese toasty on the table. "Kept that down long?" he asked.

"Almost an hour," Lestrade answered.

"Good," said John. He sat down at the end of the sofa near Sherlock's feet. "Well, I stopped by your favourite restaurant on the way to the shops," he said, earning a raised brow from Sherlock. "The manager said that everyone who drank water there that night got violently ill. They had a pipe contamination problem." He smirked. "Guess that pokes a hole in your egotistical theory about it being an assassin, eh?" Sherlock sank onto the couch moodily. John's expression softened. "How are you feeling? Need some more anti-nausea medicine?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered for what was probably the hundredth time in a few days.

John smiled briefly and nodded to Lestrade. "I'm just going to start the laundry, then I will relieve you of your official duties, Inspector," he said, with a silly half salute.

As he was going out of the room, Sherlock's voice stopped him. "John." He turned around, eyebrows raised in question. "Thank you."

John's eyes went wide for a few seconds, then he smiled. "You're welcome, Sherlock. You will always be welcome." He couldn't push down the little bubble of pride that swelled within him. It was nice to be appreciated, even if there was only mention of it once in a blue moon.


	33. Cuddle Monster Part 2

Summary: Sherlock cuddles with John in his sleep.

Warnings: None here.

…

Sherlock grunted. John turned the volume down on their TV with his unfettered arm and glanced at the top of his flatmate's head. The muscles of his face were starting to move and John realized he needed to untangle himself and quickly. He pulled his leg out from between Sherlock's long limbs and set both his feet onto the floor. He pried Sherlock's arms from around his waist (no small feat one-handed) and carefully lowered the sleeping man onto some pillows on the sofa. John darted across the room and into his armchair just as Sherlock was opening his eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "What are you doing?"

John looked up from the newspaper he was staring a hole into. "I'm…reading the paper," he said innocently.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "How long have I been sleeping?"

John balked. "How should I know? I haven't been _watching _you this whole time."

Sherlock sniffed arrogantly and stalked off into the other room. John let out a small breath of relief. So, holding Sherlock had been a little more pleasant than he would have thought. The man's pointed angles and sharp joints were actually very cushiony, very soft. John just thanked his lucky stars that the sleeping man had not noticed his presence. He would live to covertly snuggle with Sherlock another day.

…

"What are you doing?" As if Sherlock were an idiot. The moment he moved his arm he could feel the warmth on the sofa where John has just gotten up.

"I'm…reading the paper," said John, a touch of disbelief at his own words. The same paper he'd read the day before and left on the coffee table.

_Got to catch him in a direct lie_, reasoned the detective. "How long have I been sleeping?" with a feigned bleary look in his eyes.

John hid himself behind his paper. "How should I know? I haven't been _watching _you this whole time."

Sherlock smirked to himself. Saw the wrinkles on the waist of John's shirt. Could see the flush on John's forehead that told him for a liar. Had no idea what was going on.

…

It was two weeks later that Sherlock had another inconvenient collapse. He was fine until John started trying to pour water down his throat. Tossing power bars and fruit at him all the time. Tampering with the system when it was running fully well was always dangerous. Now he had nausea to deal with in addition to the black spots at the edges of his vision. He managed to make it to the flat before he passed out. Didn't quite make it to the sofa, however. His body didn't really care where it laid. So long as it was laying.

He never dreamed in these little blackouts. He felt sensations like cold and faraway, sometimes warm and pleasant. He'd been having more of the warm and pleasant ever since moving in with John, and he found it exceedingly fascinating. Whatever would become of this peculiar friendship? He could only dream, of course.

Sherlock felt a presence in his personal bubble as he came briefly to awareness. Then he heard snoring as his hearing faded back in. His legs were achy, which told of a nap on the floor or on the group somewhere (warm ground, inside, not outside), but his upper body was nicely cushioned. He drifted into an even deeper sleep, his arms circled around something soft and snuggle and his head cushioned by a nice…lap?

….

Sherlock found himself jostled as he next woke up. "What?" he muttered groggily. He heard a rustling and a thud and opened his eyes. John was sitting in his armchair, and a piece of paper was wafting down to the floor in front of him.

Sherlock stretched his long legs for a long moment before sitting up on the floor. "What were you just doing?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

John's hands folded across his lap, as if covering something up. "Um, nothing, Sherlock. I was walking by and you…startled me, is all." He smiled a little self-deprecating smile.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in contemplation. John's trousers were wrinkled this time, and he had a pressure mark on his forearm. Sherlock got to his feet and went off to his bedroom. He had some calls to make.

…

Finding Sherlock laying upon the floor was not a rare occurrence. But it was a little off-putting to see a trail of drool running from his mouth and into the rug. John thought to give his friend a little comfort by placing a pillow underneath his head while Sherlock rode out his sleep of exhaustion. It should have been a neat, stealthy trick. Unfortunately, Sherlock was sneakier and as John tried to wedge the pillow under his head, Sherlock grabbed him by the leg and pressed his face into John's thigh, making contented noises.

John sighed and put his hand over his face in annoyance. This was the second time he'd let Sherlock nab him during a nap. He looked down at Sherlock's pleased, unconscious face and decided to let him have his Teddy John once again.

It was unfortunate that he couldn't reach the remote for the TV or any books or magazines or anything of interest from his spot on the floor. He merely sat upright, getting a pain in the middle of his back after about an hour. Eventually, he laid flat, perpendicular to Sherlock, his friend's arm wrapped around his legs possessively. He didn't mean to fall asleep.

…

He snorted himself awake some time later and jerked upright in confusion. This had the effect of pushing a very sleepy Sherlock off his lap and onto the floor. Sherlock made a couple of irritated groans and John tucked and rolled away and onto the nearest chair, tripping himself on the way and landing on his knee with a thud.

"What?" Sherlock mumbled, rolling onto his back. He looked over at John, who had literally just stopped the chair from rocking with his momentum. A sheet of paper fluttered on the wind of John's dash. John hoped that Sherlock wouldn't notice. Ha ha.

Sherlock stretched languidly and sat himself up, placing his hands on the floor behind him for support. "What were you just doing?" he growled, appraising him clinically.

John put his hands to his lap to cover up his awakening hard-on. "Um, nothing, Sherlock. I was walking by and you…startled me, is all." _Please let him believe my ridiculous lie, please please, God._

Without another word, Sherlock pulled himself to his feet and stalked off into his bedroom. John let out a grateful sigh and glared at his tented pants. _How dare you, _he thought at them. _I was trying to be discreet_.

He looked at his watch and realized it was nearly 8 in the evening. He decided to fix himself a plate of food.

…

"Mycroft."

"Yes?"

"John keeps…holding me."

"_Mazeltov_."

"Shut up. This is serious."

"You think everything is serious. You lament over every insignificant happening."

"Is he attempting to court me?"

"Shouldn't you be able to determine that from observation?"

"I am too close to the issue to be objective."

"Tsk, tsk, Sherlock."

"Are you going to be helpful, or do you plan to circle around my questions until I have to come over to your office and beat you bloody with my phone?"

A sigh. "Have you ever held John on purpose?"

"Only in my sleep."

"The subconscious is the window to hidden desires, as you know."

"That's Freudian nonsense. I don't believe in it. Besides, I am trying to determine whether John is trying to court me. Not if my subconscious has secret desires for him."

"Oh, Sherlock. You can be quite adorable."

"No, I cannot. Shut up."

"You're in love."

"I don't even know why I called you." He rang off.

Sherlock was ready to tear out his hair in frustration. _Never call Mycroft. Mycroft is an idiot and a fat waste of goo_. He donned his coat and scarf and left the flat, in search of Lestrade and more information.

…

Lestrade was found hunched over his desk, concentration slipping. Every ten minutes he had to play a round of Internet Reversi as a reward just to keep plowing through his stacks of paperwork. Sherlock flung his door open, slamming it into the wall. Lestrade barely looked up. "Come to help with the paperwork? That's a surprise," he said sarcastically.

"Lestrade, if I held you while you slept, what would you think?" Sherlock asked, getting a bit too close to the DI.

Lestrade was sufficiently distracted. "I would think, my that's odd. And then I would make you buy me breakfast," he said. His eyebrow went up with concern. "Why?"

"You wouldn't wonder about the emotions involved? You wouldn't jump to conclusions?"

"I get the feeling this isn't really about me…"

"And what if I tried to slip away whenever you woke up. If I tried to hide the fact that I was holding you while you slept. What then?" Sherlock went on, folding his hands contemplatively.

Lestrade laid his glasses on his desk to give Sherlock his full attention. "Sherlock, is this about John?"

Sherlock blanched. "What?"

Lestrade smirked a little. "So the two of you are sharing a bed together and you want to know if it means anything."

"Incorrect, as usual, Lestrade," Sherlock scathed. "Lately, whenever I have pushed myself to the limits of my transport, I awaken to find that John has been keeping my side warm, although he manages to slink away before I can catch him in the act."

Lestrade nodded. "Ah…do you like him? Like that?"

"I withhold my answer until I have all the facts."

Lestrade wrinkled his nose. "Well…I think you'll probably just have to talk to him. As outlandish as they may be."

Sherlock scoffed. "God. I was afraid of that. Is there no way around it?"

Lestrade thought for a moment and then smiled. "There is a somewhat risky way around it."

…

John was flipping through channels a little distractedly. He wondered about Sherlock and mostly about himself. Why was he allowing himself to be cuddled and hugged on by this man who was supposed to a be flatmate, a friend? A colleague. He himself had made that distinction, once upon a time. When had that dynamic changed? He sighed and let the TV rest on the news. He knew deep inside that Sherlock was not going to change his outlook on human relationships just because John held him a couple of times. Sherlock might not even know what was going on. John decided that he would have to put a stop to the cuddling, no matter how exhausted Sherlock was, and no matter how much he whined and moaned in his sleep. The hours following, when he had Sherlock's smell on him, when he could naturally recall the warmth of his body, were torture. Plain and simple. Not worth the time spent holding onto someone who would never hold him back except in sleep.

The sound of the door creaking open woke John from his catnap a short while later. He saw the lengthy shadow of his flatmate stretched across the floor toward him. John sat up a little straighter, groggy and with a nap's worth of bad taste in his mouth.

"Hey," John said, inclining his head a bit. "I made pasta earlier. Still some in the fridge if you're hungry. Heat it up for 90 seconds."

Sherlock didn't say a word. He walked over to John and knelt on the sofa next to him. John waited. Sherlock then laid himself across John's lap and wrapped his arms around the doctor's waist.

John held his breath for a moment. Sherlock's body melted softly into his. "Sherlock…" he said.

"Hmm," was the reply.

"Are you-are you sleep-walking?" he wondered, his hands stuck in Limbo wanting to touch and trying not to.

"Almost certainly not," said Sherlock. "Is it okay for me to do this?" He emphasized his question by moving his arms to slightly different spots on John's back, holding him a little closer.

John's throat suddenly felt hollow and powerless. His left hand finally found a spot to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. His thumb moved back and forth very slightly.

"John?" Sherlock said, the word pouring from his mouth like cream.

John swallowed, forced his throat to speak. "This is okay to do, Sherlock. I like it." His right hand found its place brushing back the curls from Sherlock's face. When that task had lost its merit, he laid his palm flush against Sherlock's forehead and massaged his right temple with the side of his thumb.

They stayed like that all night, long after they had both fallen asleep. Sherlock's face was nuzzled against John's stomach, the rise and fall of it soothing to him. John's thumb kept up a soft rubbing even after he'd stopped thinking about it.

Elsewhere, Lestrade and Mycroft toasted one another, happy to have had a hand in the burgeoning relationship between the two flatmates.


	34. Preschool Teacher Sherlock

Summary: Sherlock teaches preschool.

Warnings: None here.

…

"I want all of you to sit in straight rows of five. Stop sniveling and sit down!"

John nudged him. "Try again."

"Hello, little children. I won't hurt you."

"Once more, with a little compassion."

"That was me being compassionate-fine. Hello, friends. Why don't you come and sit here on the carpet and I will read you a book about a pig."

Two dozen four and five-year-olds finally approached the tall man in the dark clothing and sat on the floor in front of him, chattering as they did so. Sherlock sat on a red painted stool with confetti glitter glued about its seat and legs. He held a book which he thought so little of he kept his gloves on to read from it. John stood just over his shoulder, not-so-secretly delighted to have a front row seat at the upcoming interaction between Sherlock and the classroom of preschoolers.

Sherlock peeled the book open, disgusted by its mottled stains and decaying edges. He cleared his throat. "There once was a piggy named Edgar." He turned the page. "He lived in a barn… Pigs don't typically live in barns, though," he mentioned, as an aside. He stared through the book in disbelief at how short the writing was and turned the page.

A brunette with braids raised her hand as if she could plunge it straight through the ceiling if she stretched far enough. "Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock looked up at her with only his eyes. "What do you want…Girl From Brook Drive?"

The girl put her hand down. "You didn't show the pictures."

Sherlock could barely fathom the request. "I didn't what?"

"We want to see the pictures!" a little boy in the back chimed in.

Sherlock looked down at the book in front of him, then back at the children. "Really, the illustrations are very poor. I don't think you'd get anything out of it."

"Pleeeeaaase," said a different boy.

Sherlock was going to be sick. He turned the book around and flashed the page at the group of children then went on. "Edgar the piggy had friends big and small." A quick display of the pictures on that page. "He was friends with all the animals on his farm." He turned to John for moral support, anguish written throughout his features. John gave him an encouraging nod. Sherlock went on. "Oh how nice it is to have a friend like Edgar!" He was going to kill himself. Stand up on the stool, get a medium-length rope… "Things are certainly better when we all get along."

Sherlock handed the book to the nearest child in front of him. "There, now you can look at the pictures all you want." He turned to John. "Is Lestrade not back yet? This is ridiculous! I am not a babysitter for hire!"

John smiled. "Why don't you teach them something? I'm sure Lestrade will be finished soon and then you'll have your chance to interview the teacher."

"Fine," Sherlock said spitefully. "I will teach them something." He spun back around on the stool. "Children, listen. Be quiet now, Boy With Galactosemia." Even if the chatty boy didn't understand the term, he definitely understood Sherlock's deadly glare and he quieted.

Sherlock folded his hands in his lap carefully. "Now, I wanted to talk to you all about dental care. It's very important for you to make regular checkups with the dentist. Can anyone tell me why? …yes, Girl With Pet Terrier?"

The girl stared for a moment. Then, "Because the Tooth Fairy will bring you coins?"

Sherlock consulted John on this. "What is the Tooth Fairy?"

John shrugged in feigned ignorance. "Got me."

Sherlock sighed. "Erm, no. Not for the Tooth Fairy or for coins. It's because dental records are the second most important way for identifying your bodies when you've been murdered and you've been chopped up, or burned up so much that mmph!" John's hand clapped over Sherlock's mouth, cutting off the disturbing images he was provoking.

"Sherlock," John hissed. "They're children." He released Sherlock's jaws.

Sherlock glared at him and then turned back to the children, who were looking a little traumatized. He smiled his most pleasant smile. Which was creepy to the children. "Would anyone like to see me make a coin seem like it's disappeared?"

Lestrade poked his head in the door. "Sherlock, I'll switch with you now, thanks."

Sherlock had hopped up from the stool in milliseconds. "Never again, Lestrade. I will never be humiliated like that again," he growled, walking away from the giggling children with confetti glitter stuck to his arse.


	35. Bacchanalian

Summary: Sherlock is a nice drunk.

Warnings: None here.

…

It had taken some miraculous level of Mycroft's interference to fool Sherlock into walking into a surprise party at a pub. Sherlock had stolen inside the dark and seemingly abandoned room, expecting to be ambushed by assassins or at the very least kidnappers, and was very disappointed (and furious) when his self-elected loved ones popped out of hiding to yell "SURPRISE!"

Damn. He'd forgotten his birthday again. Oh, how they loved to spring stupid surprise parties upon him. He glared at Mycroft, who was wearing a glittery party hat and waving. Maybe Sherlock would punch him later.

Everyone seemed to be in attendance, from the most prominent figures in his life, to the lesser known specimens like Raz and Organic Pete. Sherlock remained frozen in place, glaring, as the flock descended onto him to clap him on the shoulder and wish him many happy returns. He endured it all, stoically, resisting his most primal urge to rip everyone to pieces with his bare hands. He made no effort to control his wit from ripping the guests apart, however.

"Mrs. Turner, it seems you've returned to vomiting up your afternoon splurges. What are you overcompensating for this time?"

"Back off the wagon, are you, Lestrade? I hope that doesn't start to interfere with your work again…"

"Mycroft, what a delightful paunch you have."

It was as if they were all in a little lineup for Sherlock's taunting pleasure.

"Really, Anderson, a prostitute? Did Sally finally tire of you? Or was there something you wanted that Sally didn't have-anatomically?"

At this point, John grabbed Sherlock's arm in the same way he grabbed back-talking young privates in his early days as Captain John Watson. "Not quite sparkling conversation, Sherlock," said John, "but since it's your birthday, I think everyone will let it slide."

"Ugh, I didn't realise that my birthday had tenets to prevent people from storming off and leaving me alone," said Sherlock, sulkily.

John sat them at the bar and ordered a couple of pints. Sherlock nursed his with distaste, ignoring the rest of the room.

"Happy birthday, mon petit frère," said Mycroft jovially as he sidled up to the bar.

Sherlock smirked. "Hello, mon frère gras. I assume I have you to thank for this muddled aggravation."

"Indeed," Mycroft replied. "And if you make any attempt to escape, you will be helped back into the centre of the festivities at once."

"I thought as much," said Sherlock.

"Great party, Mycroft," said John clapping the bar with his palm, already halfway through his beer.

"Thank you John, I'm glad someone is appreciative." He paused for a moment. Then, "Here, I'll buy you the first shot, Sherlock." He ordered his brother a shot of vodka, which was slung back with a sneer. The sound of the small glass being slammed down on the bar got the attention of a few others who were interested in buying a shot for the man of the hour. Mycroft slunk back to a dark table to watch the evening unfold.

…

John was after his third beer, just starting to feel the edge of tipsy rolling over him. He glanced at Sherlock a bit dizzily and saw his younger friend on the edge of slipping off the bar stool.

"Sherlock, sit back up, mate, you're going to fall on your arse!" he giggled.

Sherlock giggled as well. "Thank you John," he said with a cheerful smile. "You always look after me." He sighed loudly.

John counted the little shot glasses that had collected in front of Sherlock. There were seven. Lestrade was getting ready to buy Sherlock his eighth shot when John stopped him. "Hang on, Greg," he said quietly. "Maybe let him have a break. He's a pretty pissed."

Lestrade took one look at Sherlock's pleased-with-the-world expression and nodded at John. The bartender walked by and picked up all of Sherlock's finished shot glasses.

Sherlock perked up. "You are good at fixing up computers! I can tell because of the smell of screen cleaner on your fingers, and the small electrical burn on your thumb. By the way, my doctor can look at that burn, if he's willing." Sherlock smiled. John's eyebrows went up higher than should have been physically possible.

The bartender smiled shyly and scribbled his personal number on the back of his business card, sliding it across the bar and under Sherlock's drumming fingers. "Call me if you ever need something fixed." He winked and went to help his other customers.

Sherlock looked over at John, rolling his eyes playfully. "Would you like to have his number, John?"

John chuckled. "Um, no, that's okay, Sherlock…are you feeling all right? You're acting a bit odd."

At this point, Sherlock practically fell onto John's shoulder, nearly toppling the shorter man over onto the floor. John managed to steady himself by grabbing onto the bar. Sherlock sighed, sounding very content. "Let's do this everyday," he said dreamily.

John peered down at his face. "Do what? Get ourselves plastered or just let you get loose and silly?"

Sherlock hiccupped, and in John's opinion it was very cute. "One does precede the other, you know," was Sherlock's answer.

John hmm-ed. "Really? Hadn't noticed. Thanks for telling me, though. Now I'd better write it down…" He had been going for sarcasm, but decided it must have been good-natured humour, as it sent Sherlock into a laughing fit.

The next thing John knew, Sherlock had left his side and was loping off to the middle of the pub where a few people were dancing to new-sounding club music. As John made his way over to ensure that Sherlock wouldn't insult/fall on someone, he caught Mycroft's glinting eye from a corner table. Mycroft smiled warmly at John for a moment, then focused his attention back to Sherlock, who was saying something to Sally Donovan.

"Oh, shit…" John muttered, getting ready to intervene in a slap fight. As he approached, however, he noted that Sally's face was morphing into astonishment, rather than pure rage.

He caught the end of one of Sherlock's sentiments. "-your hair with tiny crimps, then you could manage the frizz better on humid days. Not speaking from experience of course…" This sent him into a fit of laughter. He started to sway a bit, nearly knocking over Mrs. Hudson who was doing a restrained version of the Twist to music she had probably never heard.

John tried to get Sherlock by the arm to bring him away from the dance floor and into a booth where he could only do minimal damage. Then Sherlock started dancing. John didn't know what to do or to make of this, so he started dancing with his friend.

In a few minutes, it became clear that although Sherlock was a complimenting and polite drunk, he was most definitely _not _a coordinated drunk. And Sherlock found his own clumsiness just _hysterical. _Eventually, someone (John) had to guide him over to a table to "rest".

Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder. "Thank you, John, I was getting pretty tired. It's hard to dance for the people!" He had the look of a very serious teenage girl on his face.

"I know," said John, asking a waitress to bring over a few glasses of water. "We're going to have to get you drunk more often."

"Do you want to know a secret, John?" Sherlock whispered really loudly.

John arched an eyebrow. "Sure."

Sherlock fell out of his chair then and sprawled on the floor happily, making floor angels. John went after him, a bit worried about his friend's fragile noggin. "Sherlock…" he sighed.

"John, you are very much my friend," said Sherlock, his eyes closing, as he readied himself for sleep.

"Sherlock, no, you can't sleep here! It's dirty and you'll get stepped on! Sherlock…"

Meanwhile, in the guise of a bartender, Moriarty watched Sherlock flailing on the floor and wondered if perhaps he should have made the drinks a little less strong for the birthday boy.


	36. That Thing

Summary: John has a memory lapse and tries to make up for it with sex.

Warnings: PWP; NC-17 slash sex.

…

_Oh Sherlock….oh my god…._

_John, please…oh thank you, John!_

_It's my pleasure, love…my pleasure…_

John woke up with a headache and the nauseated sensation that went along with a bad hangover. His hands instantly went to grab the covers that were around his waist to pull them up over his head. _Christ, why did I get so drunk last night…_

He grunted and rolled over to see if Sherlock was in the bed…well, to _feel _if Sherlock was in the bed, because he sure as hell was never opening his eyes again. There was the slight hint of warmth where Sherlock had obviously stayed for a few hours but had left a short time ago.

John left his hand lying across Sherlock's side of the bed as he let himself melt into the mattress, thanking small favours like Saturdays off from work. He didn't have very long to enjoy a nap to himself, however, as soon a voice carried across the room and forced him to open up his eyes.

"Oh, you're awake, very good," said Sherlock, crossing the room. John peeled the covers away from his face and was grateful that Sherlock had left the curtains drawn.

"Good morning," said John, sounding less tired than he actually felt.

"John, I'll get right to the point," Sherlock said, crawling into the bed and stretching out on his side, propping up on an elbow. "I need you to do that thing again, what you did last night."

John's immediately response was to ask _What thing? _but he managed to control the impulse. Instead, he very coolly replied, "Are you sure? I'm just waking up and I may not be able to do it just right…" His main objectives were to stall for time so he could try to dredge up the reserves of his memory, and to possibly get Sherlock to reveal what he wanted John to do.

Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow at him. "..you don't think you can do it just right?" he repeated.

John nodded slowly. "I mean…I was a bit drunk last night and that's bound to affect…what I did."

Sherlock laughed a little. "I imagine it did." He sized John up with a flicker of his eyelids. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

John took offence to that. However, he didn't know how to make Sherlock think he actually had a single clue about the "thing" he'd done the previous night. So, he decided to figure it out by a process of elimination.

John pushed Sherlock over onto his back, getting an "OOF!" of surprise. He dragged his hands up the lithe man's sides, pulling up his shirt slowly. He stopped when the button-up shirt was bunched up at Sherlock's underarms. John leaned over and pressed his lips against his lover's, seeking intrusion with his tongue. Sherlock's mouth opened, a slight smirk tangible in his upper lip. John's tongue flirted with Sherlock's for a few minutes, as his mouth fought for dominance over Sherlock's constantly moving one.

John broke off the kiss and moved lower, kissing and sucking on Sherlock's long, creamy neck, pulling up bruises like they were floating in his skin.

"Unnn, John," said Sherlock. "This is not exactly what I was talk-ahhh-ing about. Why don't you just admit-oh god…" John stopped this overconfident rant, albeit peppered with moans of pleasure, by biting at Sherlock's nipple. Sherlock seethed in pain and bliss together.

"Mmm…" John moaned as well, enjoying sensations of the trembling torso beneath him. He undid Sherlock's flies and tore his trousers down to just below his hip. _Ha ha, _thought John. _I will deduce what I did to him last night. _He ceased his teasing of Sherlock's chest and neck and focused his attention on relieving him of his pants and trousers. He looked at his lover's naked body, as Sherlock removed his own shirt. _No marks, so I don't think we've done bondage… _"Roll over on your stomach baby, and put that arse up in the air so I can see it," he instructed. _Damn, _John cursed himself. Bondage had been the only thing he could think to deduce from visual clues. _Process of elimination, _he told himself. _I'll just have to do everything I can think of to him._

Sherlock had meanwhile obeyed his orders and turned himself over onto his front, face pressed into the mattress and hips angled up high. John's hand gripped one side of Sherlock's hip where firm buttocks met bony thigh. John exhaled loudly, desire and planning at the forefront of his brain. He centered himself, fully clothed between Sherlock's legs. He kneed them apart a little further, spreading Sherlock's arse open for his perusal. John continued to breathe loudly as he licked his index finger, wetting it thoroughly.

"Aaauuhhnnnnghhhnnn," was the noise Sherlock made when John's finger entered him with no preamble. "John…" he whispered, his hands pawing at the bed covers.

"Yeeees?" said John, thinking that he may have gotten at least close to what Sherlock wanted from him. He prodded his finger in further, finding Sherlock's prostate with ease, thanks to the many times he'd roused it throughout their relationship. His free hand traced up and down Sherlock's back, the sides of his neck, his held in abs that might have otherwise shown a little paunch from gravity.

"God…not what you did last night," Sherlock mentioned breathless and yet still arrogant. "But please, oh god oh god, don't stop."

John contemplated putting in a few more fingers, but instead decided to go with a different approach. Using his hands to hold Sherlock's arse open wide, John pressed his face into Sherlock's cleft and stuck out his marvelously long tongue, licking the perineum a little madly. Sherlock writhed and shook his hips about a little too much for John's liking. John in turn gripped the man's hips tighter and hooked his feet over Sherlock's ankles to hold him in place. By this point, Sherlock looked terribly hard and uncomfortable, but John didn't touch his leaking erection. And if Sherlock's hand so much as flinched in that direction, John would knock it back into place.

Sherlock had stopped making noise altogether, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, but keeping the muscles in his arse slack for John's exploit. And John had much exploiting left to do. Breathing hotly onto Sherlock's goose fleshed backside, John stuck out his tongue and began to vigorously lick the open hole. Now Sherlock saw fit to make racket again, groaning and saying nonsensical syllables and even squeaking a bit.

"Please John," he whimpered. "Pleeeeeeease."

John smacked him on the arse real good and then began to fuck Sherlock's hole with his tongue, moving his head forward and back over and over again while Sherlock started saying beautiful words in several languages. When it sounded like Sherlock was begging in German, John fisted his hand around his partner's hard cock and wrenched his fist back and forth, side to side in time with the thrusting of his ten, for all of ten seconds before Sherlock couldn't contain himself any longer and came hot across the sheets and his own elbows. Sherlock collapsed, bringing John down on top of him, both of them panting with arousal.

John rolled off of him a couple of minutes later, smirking to himself as Sherlock remained quiet and spent from their morning rendezvous. He was fairly confident that something he'd done had either been on the mark or had at least satisfied the big horny beast.

Some time later, Sherlock rolled onto his side and propped himself back up on his elbow. He sighed, contented. "That was just lovely, John, thank you." He smiled. John knew he had him. Then, "But it's not the thing you did last night. Nice try."

John groaned loudly and pushed his face into a pillow. Coming back up for air, he asked, "What did I do last night, then?"

"You brought home milk from the shops," said Sherlock slyly.

"I-what?" John tried to think back to the snippets of conversation her remembered.

_Oh Sherlock….oh my god…it's a raining mess out there…_John had walked in, carrying a bag of groceries that he had bought while pissing drunk.

_John, please…oh thank you, John! _Sherlock had taken the milk carton and poured it over some cereal and then over a bowl of hair and fingernails.

_It's my pleasure, love…my pleasure…_John had said, while watching to make sure that Sherlock ate the cereal, and not the hair.

Then, he'd climbed up the stairs and fallen over into a stupor.

John glared. "Why did you let me think that it was sex? Why couldn't you have just said that you needed more milk?"

Sherlock smiled and smacked John on the bottom. "Why waste a perfectly good opportunity?"


	37. AhMay

Summary: My first 221B! Sherlock has a Furby.

Warnings: None here.

…

John knew it was going to be a strange day when he heard Sherlock talking to something that sounded like an alien child in the other room. He left the kitchen and his morning coffee to wander into the hallway to Sherlock's rooms.

"I'm BOOOOOOORED," said the high-pitched garbled voice as John approached.

"Shut up, we're not talking about that anymore, Ah-May," said Sherlock. "Go to sleep now, Ah-May."

"Noooo. Want dance!"

John knocked. "…Sherlock? What is going on in there?" There were two possibilities in John's mind. Either Sherlock had a Furby or he was in there practicing voices and very likely parting with his mind. John knew about Furbies; he recalled them with a little shudder. When they had first come out, he'd seen dozens of children who'd brought those horrible little things with them on check-ups. Whenever a Furby had started blinking and moving without talking, just making that ominous mechanical noise, he'd had to excuse himself.

"Go away, John, Nothing that concerns you is going on in here!" Sherlock yelled, sounding a little panicked.

"Sherlock, I'm coming in there," said John, wrenching the door open, unsure what he was about to see.

Sherlock was glaring at a little white, fluffy Furby toy, which was mocking him with little dance moves.

It stopped moving. Then it whined, "Boooooored!"


	38. The Candle Light Affair

Summary: Sherlock/John and hot wax.

Warnings: Not particularly graphic sex, but sex nonetheless

…

Grasping for a handful of the comforter, he lifts his chin towards the ceiling and presses his eyes shut tight. The only light in the room is from the burning red candle which is sitting on the beside table accruing wax for the next bit of foreplay. They are both completely naked, their clothes long forgotten on the floor, the warmth of their garments replaced my hot kisses and fumbling hands. Now Sherlock has been subdued by John's roguish strength and he lays compliantly on his back as his partner lovingly sketches his body with lips and fingertips, especially on hard muscles and sharp bones.

Hushed tones remind Sherlock that he is loved, that he is beautiful and brilliant. A silent flicker from the corner of his eye reminds John of the candle and the red wax. Rocking back to rest on his calves, John takes the candle in his hand and rubs his other over the pale, perfect canvas before him.

"So gorgeous," he says in awe. He tips the candle experimentally above Sherlock's pronounced hip bone. A pinch of wax splatters there, burning for a few seconds before it hardens. Sherlock's face shifts downward to watch, even as the rest of him remains still and expectant.

John's arm stretches upward, the candle still tipped, and it leaves a long, thin line of wax from Sherlock's groin to his throat. Sherlock's breath shudders and he exhales through his mouth as he waits out the pain. When the trail of wax has had a chance to harden over his skin, some of it seeping into pores and conforming to his shape, Sherlock is keening for more of the blissful pain. John's fingers are occupied at the base of Sherlock's cock, twisting up and down the shaft, his thumb running over the head so softly, almost torturously so. He holds the candle back upright so more wax can gather around the wick and he leans forward, still stroking Sherlock's erection, keeping the candle out by his side and steady as a gun, and he presses his lips against Sherlock's open mouth. Sherlock moans into John's throat, needy and drunk with sensation.

Every kiss is desperate; every stroke of John's hand conveys his desire. Sherlock wills himself away from the edge of pleasure, strains against the assault of impending orgasm, trying to make it last, trying to get John to drip more of the liquid heat over him. John sees his predicament and for a few moments, he strokes faster and kisses harder, just to drive the man wild, just for him. He stops with only a few seconds to spare. Sherlock manages to catch himself and he is panting. He confesses his adoration for John, like a guilty man telling his sins, like a criminal finding relief for his conscience. John moves to Sherlock's chin, kissing there and then going further down to draw out a purple mark from Sherlock's neck.

John leans himself back to resting on his shins and knees and then carefully lets the wax drip from the candle once more, this time over Sherlock's thighs, the red fluid running down the sides of Sherlock's legs and onto the bed, and thickening around coarse hair. Sherlock's fingers twist into the comforter and he bites his lip as the wax runs down towards more sensitive areas. John goes back to stroking.

All the wax has been spent once more, and John sets the glistening candle back on the bedside table, his full attention gone back to Sherlock's erection, Sherlock's hips, his chest and his mouth. The thought of his come mixing with the hardening red wax sends Sherlock's into waves of orgasm at last. John moans as Sherlock does, taking almost as much pleasure in the release. Sherlock stays perfectly immobile for minutes afterwards, his body a work of art, a painting gifted to him by his lover. John's hand rests on Sherlock's shoulder as he lays beside him, his legs giving out from holding their position for so long. They forget about the candle, which eventually flickers out and leaves them. John's fingers start to compulsively chip away the wax covering Sherlock's chest and Sherlock allows it. They fall asleep, John's fingers stretched across Sherlock's thin frame, and Sherlock half-covered in cooled wax.


	39. Having My Baby

Summary: John is pregnant and terribly uncomfortable.

Warnings: Mpreg

…

John was 43 weeks pregnant and crabby. The private doctor provided by Mycroft had warned against inducing the birth and strongly suggested that John wait until there were contractions or water breaking. Everything had been pretty typical of the pregnancy (aside from John being a man), so everyone assumed that the end of it would be typical as well. But John was very displeased with how long it was taking. John was so irritable he had warned Sherlock to stop all his experimentation in link with the pregnancy.

"And that includes measuring my belly, taking saliva samples and poking it!" John growled from the armchair, which he hadn't moved from in hours.

Sherlock stood like a deer frozen in headlights holding a roll of measuring tape. John heaved a great sigh and pushed his unnatural girth out of the chair. "God, I have to pee…have to pee, have to pee…" He waddled toward the bathroom cursing. "Make some tea, Sherlock!" he yelled as he slammed the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Tea will just send you right back there…" But he went to brew a kettle anyway.

John came back a few minutes later with a vicious glare when he saw that Lestrade and Mycroft had stopped by to visit. He focused his evil glower on Sherlock who threw his hands up innocently. "It's not as though I _asked _them to come, John. How could this be my fault?"

John narrowed his eyes. If he'd been a cartoon bull, steam would be blowing out his nose. "Sherlock," he said calmly. Lestrade and Mycroft were very quiet, eyes darting between Sherlock and John. "You put this _thing _inside of me. That means everything bad that happens in the world is YOUR FAULT!"

Lestrade looked at a pretend watch. "Hmm…must be getting close to baby time…I hope."

"Shut up, Lestrade," John hissed, plopping down in his chair, spreading his legs out much wider than normal. "It's not as if you've done anything to help these hellish nine months."

Lestrade gaped at that. "I brought you groceries everyday for a month when Sherlock was away on a case. I-I rubbed your feet at the end of that month-"

"You rubbed his feet?" Sherlock asked, eyes going large and mouth wrinkling in horror.

"Yes, Sherlock, he rubbed my feet," said John. "It's what caring, considerate people do when their pregnant man friend has fifty pound swollen feet."

"Perhaps you should try some home remedies to induce labour," said Mycroft unassumingly. John and Sherlock instantly got emails detailing a list of activities that could bring about faster labour.

Sherlock read over the list. "Let's try nipple stimulation."

John scowled at him. "Let's try a walk."

…

"Get out of me, you bastard. Get out before I explode!" John was a sight, shuffling down the sidewalk, yelling at his overgrown stomach. Sherlock followed behind, hands in his pockets, avoiding looks. John started pulling on the neck of his shirt to fan himself. "God, why do I have to be nine months pregnant in July? For God's sakes!"

"Would you like to stop for castor oil?" Sherlock suggested as they passed a chemist's.

"I want to stop and punch you in the throat," John muttered. He stopped and Sherlock walked around to his side. "Sherlock, I'm going to die. This baby is going to kill me." He started to look all teary-eyed so Sherlock patted him on the shoulder before pulling him in for a hug. John instantly pushed him off with a growl. "Get off me! This is still your fault. You are not forgiven." John waddled on.

"Mood swings are pretty bad today. Maybe that's a good sign," said Sherlock.

John fisted his hands, trying to tell himself _The father of your child must not have a concussion. _John hoped that Sherlock was appreciative of all the things he did for him.

…

Back at their flat, John eased back onto the sofa, feeling no closer to giving birth to his evil child than he had the day he'd found out he was pregnant in the first place. "God, this is the most uncomfortable I have ever been in my life," John complained as Sherlock got him a bottle of water. "I'm sweating, I'm huge, I keep getting kicked, I can barely move, can't take a hot bath…"

Sherlock had learned to keep some things to himself over the final trimester. Things that he wanted to say, like _You're not doing us any good by complaining constantly. _That was the kind of mistake that would get him silent treatment, or more recently, a good whacking with the newspaper. Instead he said, "Sexual intercourse is one of the home remedies on our list. I know how you feel about me touching you right now, but if it's the only way…"

"That's how this whole thing got started," John spat. "You want to put more of these things in me? You want me to suffer this crap for nine more months?"

"John don't be silly-" WHACK! "Augh. I'm just saying, you can't possibly get pregnant again. Not until this first one has been born."

John rolled his newspaper up again. "So you know the ins and outs of male pregnancy, do you?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I think I may be the world's expert on the subject, yes."

There was a very long, tension-filled silence. "Fine," John said.

…

"Lucky guess," John muttered ten minutes later when he started getting contractions.

"I never guess," said Sherlock. "I think it was the nipple stimulation that did it, but I'd have to run a few more trials before I could be certain…"

"Just get me a cab!" John yelled. He went down the stairs slowly as Sherlock ran past to go hail a taxi.

They made it to the hospital in record time, Sherlock yelling out directions and back streets while John just screamed at the driver to "Move this piece of shit taxi!"

They needn't have gotten to the hospital so quickly, as they ended up sitting around for eighteen hours while John grew increasingly aggravated and difficult. Mycroft had to fly in the private doctor while the nurses just tried to make John as comfortable as possible and Sherlock made frequent runs for ice.

Finally, _finally _John was getting prepped for surgery. He allowed Sherlock to hold onto his hand as they started to roll him away to the operating theatre. "I love you," he said quietly.

"I love you too," said Sherlock, kissing John's forehead. "I'll see you in a little while."

"I'm sorry I yelled at you. You can touch me and annoy me with experiments anytime you like," John said.

Sherlock nodded. "I knew you would eventually see how unreasonable you were being." WHACK. That time it was with John's open fist.


	40. Shadow

Summary: Sherlock's beginnings as an alley cat...

Warnings: Meanness to cats, death of an OC.

...

Shadow was born in damp box behind an Indian restaurant in London. His fur was black with a little white spot on his chest. He had four brothers and sisters who mewled and nudged up against him and their mother for warmth. He was too small and too cold and too scared to be annoyed by his nuzzling siblings, so he shoved himself against them as well, seeking as much contact as possible. He sought his mother's belly whenever he was hungry, or anytime he could hear the other kittens suckling on her. Life was uncomplicated and slow, but Shadow had his mother and he had warm and safe and full.

In a few weeks, the litter had gone from meowing to hissing at each other. Instead of needing to be constantly curled up together, they were starting to move about and distance themselves. When Shadow hissed at his brother a little too viciously, Mother Cat picked him up by his scruff and set him down in the corner of the box. Shadow was perfectly happy with that. He laid in his own little corner and rested, gathering up strength that he would need someday soon.

Before Shadow had grown strong enough to venture far on his own, Mother Cat decided to move her children to a new place. Shadow was all the way in the corner of the box, so Mother Cat moved all his brothers and sisters across the street to an abandoned wooden crate one at a time before returning for him. Normally, it was a busy road, but it was very early in the morning that Mother Cat was moving her family, so cars were infrequent. Or, at least they had been when she had begun moving her children.

Shadow curled his tail around his feet and waited, missing his mother, shivering for want of his siblings and the warmth they had brought to the box. He began to feel like it had been too long, that Mother Cat wasn't coming back for him. But, that was impossible! He was Shadow and she was Mother Cat and she was never gone forever…

Only this time, she was.

…

Mother Cat had been gone some time when Shadow began to make noises that even he knew sounded pitiful. But he didn't care. He was hungry and he was afraid and his tiny body didn't have thick enough fur to keep him from shivering in the cold, rainy morning. Rainwater leaked through the sides of the box and he licked it wishing it were Mother Cat's milk. He kneaded his claws on the cardboard box, seeking milk, seeking his mother's stomach for food, but nothing happened. With a rumbling belly, Shadow fell asleep.

…

Hours passed by and Shadow could tell that he was going to have to get up, to find something to eat or he would perish. He had been trying to walk ever since he first opened his bright little eyes. Crawling toward and away from Mother Cat had come fairly naturally, but getting up and leaving the box on his own was discouraged by her nudging him back to the corner. Eventually he stuck his head out of the box, the only place he'd known outside of his mother's womb.

It was too bright and too noisy outside the box, but his hunger made him keep going. The smells were disorienting. He thought he smelled milk, but he also smelled many other things from all directions. A loud noise from the street startled him and he moved quickly on fumbling legs back into his box. Trembling and starving, Shadow laid back down in his corner and slept.

…

A rustling woke him. Shadow's ears laid back flat against his skull and he tried to make himself small as his box started to rattle. There were strange sounds making his box vibrate. When something lowered into the box, Shadow hissed, trying to make himself look larger, trying to frighten the thing away. More noises rattled his box and the first something laid a second something down in the middle of the box. It was cup that smelled like milk. The first something retreated and the noises and the rattling went away.

Shadow waited and waited until he was sure that nothing else was going to happen. He moved over to the bowl and lapped up the milk hungrily. When his belly was full, Shadow wobbled back over to his corner to settle down. On a second thought, he went to the spot where Mother Cat once laid while her kittens fed. He curled up in the place that smelled most like her and went back to sleep.

…

Each day for many days, the cup of milk was replaced and Shadow drank and got stronger and began to chase little bugs that wandered into his box. He played with his tail and rolled around on his back, but always returned to Mother's Cat's spot whenever he slept.

One day, instead of the milk being placed inside of his box, the hand (for he had seen the rest of the something and saw that it was only a human paw) reached inside and picked him up under his belly, his long legs dangling about helplessly. He hissed at the hand and squirmed around, but the person brought him out into the sunlight and squeezed him against their chest. Shadow struggled and cried out against the intruder. There were high-pitched noises coming from the person that frightened him. They touched his head and his back and even his tail! Finally, he was able to wriggle into a position where he could scratch his claws against the person's neck. Almost immediately there was a shriek and Shadow was thrown onto the hard ground, scraping the bottoms of his paws. He ignored the shouting and ran, his heart thumping loudly inside of him. He ran until he was in the darkest, most remote part of the alley, far away from the sounds of the street and the noises of people. Panting, he collapsed beside a rusty old skip.

When he caught his breath again, he licked his paws gently. What a horror it was to be grabbed like that and then thrown down on the concrete like a piece of trash! People were horrible. If they wanted to bring him milk, that was fine, but picking him up was definitely out of the question.

…

Meanwhile, in the human jungle, Sherlock Holmes was an up-and-comer in crime investigations. Meaning he randomly appeared at crime scenes and got arrested more often than he was listened to by the police. With a little harmless flirting and some impressive logic he was able to talk Sergeant Gregory Lestrade into letting him look over cold cases, and occasionally live evidence.

Lestrade's only real issue with the gangly young man who had more brilliance than was deserved for someone of his age (of any age, really) was that Sherlock too often took off running after criminals without Lestrade looking after him. But Sherlock was helping to put some very nasty criminals in prison and Lestrade was finding out that it wasn't possible to cut Sherlock off from crime scenes.

In criminal circles, Sherlock was gaining a reputation as something to be despised. Too many low-level criminals had seen relatives and friends go behind bars thanks to Sherlock, and they weren't happy about it.

…

Shadow eventually settled on a dry piece of ground behind the skip to rest. He bundled himself into a small shape, his eyes adjusting well in the darkness as night fell. Almost immediately, he saw a little creature moving on the opposite side of the alley. Shadow stared intently at it, trying to decide if it was some kind of prey, something he could eat. Mother Cat had told stories of prey, how she hunted and how she would teach him to hunt one day. He hadn't had any milk and was a bit hungry. He would try to hunt!

It was a rat. Shadow lowered his chest to the ground, his tail swishing with anticipation. The small animal didn't see him. Shadow flew across the alley, prepared to attack the rat. When he got closer, he realized that it was as big as he was. Tentatively, Shadow tapped his paw on the creature's furry back. The rat hissed at him and scurried off into a hole. Shadow decided he would keep practicing with insects, flies and such, until he was big enough to take on a rat.

…

A year passed. Shadow had grown large enough to take on the rats-and he was pouncing on them and having them for dinner twice a week. He moved around a lot in the nights, figuring out the maze that was London, often meeting other cats, sometimes fighting with them. He studied people whenever possible. They were very interesting to him, going into big buildings to hunt and coming out with so much more food than he could ever kill. They made noise constantly, so he had no idea how they could be such great hunters. For the most part they ignored him. Every once in a while, a dark man would come after him with a net, but Shadow always evaded the man by going into one of his many hideouts, which were always close by.

Then came the day that would change all that Shadow had known until then. Shadow was waiting behind a fish market for scraps to be thrown out. There were a few other cats milling and hiding around there, but Shadow was fairly certain that he could get a good portion for himself, maybe enough to hide some for later. When a few fish heads and _bouillabaisse_ were tossed out into the alley, a swarm of cats descended on the spoils. A big gray and black cat that was new to Shadow growled and hissed at all the other cats. A few timid ones ran away, but Shadow and two of the more fearsome cats stood their ground.

A fight broke out between the four of them and Shadow wound up walking away, but hungry and limping. He tucked himself into an overturned bin to lick his wounds. He eventually fell into a restful sleep.

When it was darkening out, he woke up to the sound of a bin nearby being turned over. There were people talking quietly. Terrible hunters. He backed up into the bottom of the bin so maybe they wouldn't see him. Moments later, his world (and the bin) got turned upside-down. He flipped and fell on the ground, hurting his already sore leg. The bin was thrown against the brick wall of the fish market and Shadow could see three big men standing around him. He tried to back up and hiss at them, but one of them grabbed him by his scruff and wrenched him high up into the air. Shadow yowled and tried to shake free, but he couldn't. He was thrown into a cage in a people carrier and driven away.

…

Sherlock was leaving a pub, gathering information from some of the regulars there. He never had to talk to anyone; observing gave him everything he needed to know. He felt a little light-headed, even though the only thing he'd had to drink was a single pint. Sherlock could usually hold his liquor, unlike some of the fall-down drunks in the establishment that evening.

He began to stumble in the darkness and he grasped at his coat pocket for his mobile, which ended up clattering to the ground thanks to Sherlock's fumbling fingers. A black car pulled up to the kerb in front of him and a suited man stepped out of the front passenger door and opened the rear door, gesturing for Sherlock to get in. Sherlock squeezed his eyes against the fuzziness growing in his vision. _Mycroft's car, _he thought, a little annoyed, a little relieved. He decided to climb into the back. Nothing good would come from trying to walk home in the state he was in.

…

Shadow had never been more scared in his life when someone wearing thick gloves reached into the cage to grab him. He tried batting the hand away and clawing at the person, but it didn't help. They grabbed him and yanked him out and set him on a table. He didn't see what happened next, but it felt like an insect bite between his shoulder blades. He heard shouting in the next room and it frightened him even more to hear a person making scared noises in this place. The shouting stopped around the same time that he got very tired. The hands left him alone and he fell onto his side and slept.

…

When Sherlock woke up, he was being dragged past ominous-looking medical equipment in some sort of lab. His immediate instinct was to struggle and fight against the two sets of hands that had a hold on him. "Get off!" he cried, disappointed when his voice cracked in fright.

He managed to calm himself enough to look into the faces of his assailants. He recognised only one of them; instantly a cold hand grabbed his insides. _Not Mycroft's car. Obvious. Dr. Cire's laboratory. Medical experimentation, eugenics, genetic manipulation. _

The emergency restraint chair in the corner was all Sherlock could see as he was pulled and seized roughly towards it. He didn't even notice the skinny black cat lying on a prep table against the wall.

…

Shadow could remember very brief, strange things after from short times he was aware. He saw a person sleeping in a chair. He saw tubes and metal instruments. He saw a razor taking fur from his leg. He never fought the people who were doing these things to him. He only watched from the vantage point of his detached, uncaring mind. Eventually he fell asleep for a long, long time and he couldn't remember anything at all from that period of time.

…

When Shadow woke up for good, he was disoriented. He limbs and neck were sore and stiff. He tried stretching, but his body was dead weight and refusing to obey him. He whimpered inside of his mind.

_You don't belong here._

A human voice and human sounds that made sense, that made words. He suddenly knew about words and what they were and their meanings. He must have been dreaming, but oh! To know what dreaming was…not possible.

_You are no part of me. I will not have it._

The voice was angry and scared. Shadow was scared, too.

His eyes opened and his head moved. But it was all so strange. His vision was bad and why was he still indoors? He was lying in a bed, of all things and…and those weren't his paws.

_Get out of my head, _said the voice and Shadow felt himself being pushed. He was pushed to a corner of his own mind, or was it his at all? It didn't feel like his anymore if this voice could just push him away. He found it harder to concentrate, to worry about what might be going on.

"Sherlock!" said a very loud voice. "Sherlock, my god!" His eyes (not his eyes) focused on a tall man in a suit who was entering the room.

"Mycroft," the voice from his head muttered. But somehow it had gotten louder and closer.

"Come on. I'll get you to my Compound," said the tall man.

Shadow's body (not his body) struggled to sit up. The tall man came over and helped him to stand and walk out of the room. Shadow trembled inwardly.

_Stop it. Stupid, stupid animal. Stop it. …Please._

…

Over the next few weeks, Shadow learned that he could access the man's, Sherlock's, memories and knowledge. It amazed him, the things that he now knew by association with this man. Sherlock knew he was doing it, knew that he was perusing all of the Information that he had.

_Stop looking into my brain! That's personal, it's private, do you understand?_

Shadow understood, but he didn't know how to respond and his interest was too great to stop seeing what Sherlock knew. He had read books, this man. He had seen the world in pictures. He had met many people and knew a lot about them.

Eventually, the man stopped trying to talk to him, no longer ordered him or even asked him to stop looking at the Information. Shadow sometimes felt lonely, other times he just slept when the man was doing something that didn't interest him. Often the man would shake his head violently whenever Shadow was trying to sleep. Sometimes he would lie down and sleep as well.

Shadow learned about all of Sherlock's acquaintances. He learned that he was a detective. He learned that he was rude and intolerable, but that he had a deep caring for all people, despite what they did to him. If Shadow were still a cat, he would have rubbed up against Sherlock's leg and pressed his face into Sherlock's hand to show him that he was loved.

And then there was the running and jumping. He remembered (he saw the memories of) Sherlock before Shadow was with him, running and tripping, or even just walking and tripping. Sherlock had been very clumsy, had grown into his long limbs too fast without getting used to them. But with Shadow's instincts, his innate grace and endurance and speed, Sherlock's abilities improved.

The first time they ran together, Sherlock was chasing after a jewel thief through back alleys. This was Shadow's natural environment and he saw things with Sherlock's eyes, making their body faster, more agile and more focused. The thief was very fast, but he wasn't running for endurance. They lost him for a second, but Shadow knew all about these alleys. Sherlock could see Shadow's memories now, tried to see them even. He combined the visual-spatial knowledge of the alleys with his own logic about which way the thief had most likely taken. They overcome the petty criminal with ease, pouncing on him just as he was about to slip away into a taxi. Shadow had never felt so excited, as he shared in Sherlock's adrenaline. Even Sherlock noticed the improvements and remarked out loud to himself that he was, "so fast now."

Even after that Sherlock never talked to Shadow. Shadow assumed that he didn't know Shadow wanted to talk back, that the voice inside their head, while abrasive, was always welcome.

More than anything, though, Shadow wished he could talk to Sherlock's acquaintances, and especially John Watson, once they met him…once Sherlock met him. John was Sherlock's only friend, and the first friend he'd had for many years. John was nice to Sherlock, but it was much more than that. John challenged Sherlock when he thought he was doing something bad, "not good," as he had said a few times. Sherlock tried his damndest to keep his feelings about John away from Shadow, but it was no use. Shadow knew as soon as Sherlock did that John was special to them.

John was Shadow's only friend too. The often warm and fuzzy-feeling man made Shadow feel like he had when he was touching his brothers and sisters, or brushing his face against Mother Cat's belly. Sometimes, Sherlock would lay his head on John's lap and let John stroke their hair. Shadow liked to think that Sherlock did this for him, but he probably did it for John, if John's happy sighs were any indication.

But even if Sherlock never spoke to him, and the hair-stroking was all for John, Shadow was happy in his tiny role in their lives, content to curl up in the corner of Sherlock's mind and watch their story unfold before him.


	41. Stubborn

Summary: Sherlock breaks his arm. Why is he being so stubborn?, John wonders.

Warnings: Mild description of injuries, 1st person POV

...

I was enjoying a cool morning in Spring, taking slow sips of tea and sitting in a fuzzy dressing gown. It was one of the few days that I was able to relax and take in a late morning since Sherlock was out. Just as I was getting ready to read the newspaper, there was a creak on the staircase, indicating that Sherlock was back from his…whatever he was doing all night. I sighed. Well, nothing lasts forever.

He came stumbling into the flat without preamble and looking frightful. I was on my feet almost immediately, my paper wafting to the floor. Sherlock had a cast on his right arm, cradled in a sling. I saw some defensive injuries on his fingers and the palms of his hands. Any other injuries he might have had were masked by his clothing.

"Sherlock, what happened?" I asked the obvious question.

Sherlock gave me a withering glare, as if to say _Can you not glean that information from looking me over once?_

"I fell on some stairs trying to chase after someone who turned out to be nobody," he said. He went on to elaborate, "It's icy out. I misjudged."

I looked at his standard medical sling. "Have you been to the A&E?"

He nodded and went over to pour himself some tea from the brew I'd made earlier. I watched him for any sign of lower body injuries and didn't see any limping, not even a well-concealed indication of pain. My stomach unclenched then, and I let go of a little breath. Sherlock brought his tea with him and sat gingerly on the couch.

I gave him a moment to settle. Then, "Why didn't anyone call me? I assume you didn't go to hospital all by yourself."

He set his tea on his lap, balancing the saucer on his thigh. "No, I did go by myself. Well, a taxi driver got me there, of course…"

I frowned. "Sherlock, why didn't you call me? I would have helped you."

He shrugged his left shoulder. "You would've made me go to hospital anyway. It's a compound fracture. I'm not so stupid that I'd let it go unattended." He said the last with bitterness.

That was the moment when I realised something sigh-worthy. Sherlock was going to be a royal pain during his recovery. I was going to have to get him things at all hours of the day and night (not that that was new), cart his experiments and rotting body parts around and flip channels on the telly for him. Basically, I was looking at 6 weeks to 3 months of being a full-time maid.

I waited. I wasn't about to offer anything to him before he asked for it. Best not to encourage it. Sure, I would take care of the man as he was clearly hurting, but I knew that he would try to take advantage of me if I let him.

About an hour later, Sherlock fished a pain pill out of his pocket, took it, and fell asleep on the sofa. I covered him up with a blanket and sat back across from him. After I grew tired of watching his chest rise and fall, I decided that I would go out and buy a few things from the shops. Best to have a fully stocked kitchen on hand for my newest patient.

…

I returned about two hours later after taking two taxis and having petty annoyances with the machines in the grocery store. I went back into the flat carrying four bags of items I thought Sherlock might enjoy eating while he convalesced.

As I entered the living room, I turned an expectant eye towards the couch but didn't find Sherlock there. "Sherlock?" I called, wondering if maybe he had retreated off to bed.

"Yes?" His voice startled me, coming from the kitchen. I walked around a little awkwardly with all my shopping and found him shakily holding a pipette in his left hand. He dropped some of the liquid on the table, causing one of the placements to get singed.

"Why are you playing with acid when you've got your good arm all wrapped up?" I asked, my mouth wrinkling into a scowl.

Sherlock gave a quick glance towards me and then did his version of a double-take. He was up from the table instantly, his pipette forgotten and dripping onto the ruined placemat. "Did you get any lemons? We're out and I need it for my tests…" Then he tried to take one of the bags that I was still holding in my dumbfound stupor.

I jerked away from his questing fingers. "Can you wait until I get all this put away? Yes, I got lemons." I swear he growled at me. "Sit down. You can't carry these bags. They're heavy."

He sulked back over to the table and picked up his instrument again. "I am not an invalid, John," he muttered. "It's just a broken arm."

I hummed in agreement, but didn't state my real opinion. Instead I unpacked the bags one at a time and placed a couple of lemons next to him. No other strange incidents happened that day, unless you count Sherlock being quiet and not demanding anything of me. I hardly noticed, I was so busy cleaning up the flat and watching telly with all the free time I had.

…

Sherlock and I had parted ways at about nine o'clock that night. He'd gone off to his bedroom (to sleep, I'd assumed) and I had stayed up for a few hours reading. Eventually I climbed the staircase up to my bedroom and fell asleep quickly.

A noise woke me. I squinted over at the alarm clock and saw the red numbers saying 3:25. I rubbed my face and planned to go back to sleep but heard cursing and then a sound like a whimper. I swallowed back my morning breath (technically morning) and shifted out of the bed. I stumbled down the stairs in the darkness until my fingers ran over the switch for the hall lights.

Illuminated there on the floor of the living room was Sherlock clutching his shoulder and glaring at me, as if I were intruding on him. That's when I saw what was going on. The coffee table was out of place and centered underneath the main overhead light. A replacement bulb was sitting next to Sherlock's foot.

"I'll get it," I told him, my voice betraying none of the aggravation I felt.

"No!" Sherlock snapped at me. "I will do it, just give me a moment…in fact, go back to sleep. This doesn't concern you at'all."

"Why won't you let me help you?" I crossed my arms over my chest. "Why are you being so stubborn? Why are you even trying to change the bulb in the middle of the night?"

"I was already awake and I needed the light to read," he said, attempting to get up. "And I don't need help," he snarled when he saw me coming over to steady him to his feet.

I shrugged. "Fine. But you are really being childish."

I watched as he stood up on the table and unscrewed the dead bulb. He got down and sat in the reclining chair to breathe heavily and clutch at his likely throbbing arm. While he panted, I took the new light bulb from the floor and screwed it into place while Sherlock protested my every move. I rolled my eyes. Not like he could stop me.

…

Finally, he agreed to go off to bed, if only to allow me to get some rest. I slept well until late that morning, waking up with a stiff lower back. Cursing myself for sleeping so late, I got up and showered. Once I was dressed, I headed back downstairs to make some breakfast. Perhaps this would be one of the occasions when Sherlock deigned to eat with me.

While I was toying with the coffee maker (damn bloody, fecking machines) I heard the noise of the shower running in Sherlock's bathroom. I pursed my lips and frowned. _He had better be testing water temperatures or washing the blood off a murder weapon._

I knocked on the door.

"Go away," said Sherlock's muffled voice.

I knocked again, harder. "Sherlock, you're not taking a shower, are you?" Quiet. "Because you can't get your cast wet. It could cause irritation or give you an infection, especially with the compound fracture."

"I'm handling it," he replied.

I groaned. "Call me if you need anything." I stalked angrily back into the kitchen to finish with the brew. "Damn that stubborn arse," I said to myself. I poured a cup of coffee for myself, adding some sugar and left the rest of it for Sherlock, if he ever made it out of the shower.

Sherlock finally came to join me in the sitting room, wearing his dressing gown a little lopsided. I assumed that was because he was having pain and refused to take more of his painkillers. He saw that I was having coffee and went to the kitchen to pour himself some. I heard him struggling with the sugar bowl and sighed. If he was going to be mulish, I was going to leave it to him.

"Shit," he muttered. I turned around to see that he had filled his mug too full and spilled some of the coffee on his fingers. He sipped off the top, probably burning his tongue, and then came to sit back on the couch which had come to be known as his.

"Let me ask you," I said, folding my hands between my knees, "why do you have to be so bloody stubborn about this? Why can't you let me help you with something? You're injured. Your dominant arm in unusable. Any other day you would be snapping at me to get you pens and fingers and crisps. Why won't you let me help?"

He stared at me soberly throughout my rant. "I took care of myself when I was five and had a broken arm," he said after a beat. "Why should it be any different when I'm an adult?"

"You broke your arm when you were five?" I asked. "The same arm?"

"Yes. No one believed it was really broken at first. I went on for two days and I did everything that was normally expected of me until finally Mycroft convinced my mother to take me to hospital."

I felt my throat tighten a little, thinking of five-year-old Sherlock with a broken arm having to clean up his toys and do writing assignments, or whatever he did at that age. "I'm sorry that you had that happen to you," I said, trying to be empathic.

He shrugged his good shoulder. "My mother still feels guilty to this day. She didn't believe that anyone could break an arm tripping over a misplaced broom."

I nodded. "Sherlock…I know that you were dealing with it alone when you were a kid, and that's really awful, but you don't have to do everything yourself this time. I will help you. I'll get you anything you want and I'll carry heavy stuff so you won't end up on the floor in pain." I figuratively crossed my fingers, hoping he would let me help him. I couldn't wake up in the middle of the night to find him nearly in tears again.

He seemed to study my face. Then, "John, I require my laptop, another cup of coffee, my pain pills and my mobile." I almost laughed. Then, he went on, "And while you're getting all that, make a call to the number on the business card pinned to the fridge, and ask them to meet you on Rosenthal Avenue and give you the box of rat femurs."

_What have I done?_


	42. Wrong Part 1

Summary: Sherlock comes home to find John packing.

Warnings: Angst

...

There was nothing wrong. Nothing unusual, nothing missing or undone from their routine that day. They'd had no fights, not even a cross word. In fact, Sherlock had been on very good behaviour (in his mind) all morning. And John had been in a good mood when Sherlock had left the flat. Sherlock had gone to investigate something Lestrade had called up about. He'd been gone for maybe two hours, thinking about the crime scene and ready to mull it over with John as a sounding board when he got back. Everything was fine.

So why was John packing up his things?

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked. John kept wrapping dishes into newspaper. "John?"

John flinched just a little, but Sherlock caught it. He tried walking into John's field of vision, but John kept evading him. "John. Where are you going? Why are you packing up dishes?"

John shook his head and started wrapping dishes a little slower, as if savouring the action. As if…

"John, really, what are you doing? I don't understand," Sherlock said. Had he done something horrible and then deleted it? No. Not in the span of two hours, surely. Then… "John, are we being watched?"

John turned toward him and sighed, annoyed. "No, Sherlock, we are not being watched. Except maybe by your brother. But he isn't concerning me right now." John sealed the box of dishes and walked it over to the door. Then he went up to his bedroom, leaving Sherlock staring at the floor, trying to figure out what was going on. _This does not compute. He's leaving? Or does he just hate the dishes…no, he's acting too strangely to only be getting rid of things he doesn't want. _Then Sherlock managed to derail an awful train of thought. _Maybe he doesn't want…_

Sherlock sat down on the sofa, getting a glimpse of a big stack of broken down boxes and a roll of tape on the kitchen table. He gripped the arm of the couch, observing the physical evidence. The kitchen had been organised. John had divided the kitchen table into Sherlock's experiments and the random flotsam of his work and John's box of spices and other kitchen tools. Sherlock swallowed down a big lump of anxiety. He couldn't stop ruminating "Why?" over and over. It was as if his mind couldn't wrap around what was happening. John was one of a handful of friends that Sherlock had had in his life, and certainly the best one. And now, as always, Sherlock had done something (_something) _to drive him away. Except for the rush of questions, the why's and where's and what for's, Sherlock's brain had stopped.

He sat like that for hours, unaware that time was passing by. When he felt a pressure on his shoulder, he jolted backwards. His face went hot and he gasped audibly. Sherlock focused his eyes and saw John standing there, wearing his coat and a messenger back across his shoulder. Sherlock glanced towards the entrance to the flat (really an exit, he would never think of it as anything else). There were two stacks of John's things, carefully sealed and labeled into boxes. Sherlock just stared.

"Well," John breathed. "I'm going now. If there's anything else I forgot, I…well just let me know, if you don't mind." John put his hand out for a shake. "It's been a crazy ride, Sherlock. I've had a lot of fun. It's…it _was_ amazing."

Sherlock had told himself that he was going to be aloof, strong, hardened when John came back down the stairs. If he'd had an ounce more pride, or an even smaller amount of discretion more, he could have done it. "John, what have I done? Why are you leaving so abruptly?" he whispered.

John put his hand back at his side. "Sherlock…you would never understand. You have no idea what it's like living with you."

Sherlock felt incensed at that remark. "Tell me what I've done," he nearly growled. "Isn't it customary to give someone a reason when you leave them in the lurch without a flatmate to carry on paying rent?"

John hesitated. Sherlock looked at all the moods John's face was projecting in quick succession. Guilt, anger, worry, grief, longing, regret. When had he seen all those before at one time? John interrupted his thoughts. "I'm sorry. I'll give you my half for the next three months. Will that be enough time?" Back to the business of the matter.

Sherlock pressed his lips together into a tight line. He didn't want John's money. He could certainly take care of the rent himself. What he wanted was a reason. He told John so.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, it's too hard for me to live here. It's too chaotic, it's too unpredictable-"

Sherlock cut him off, "But you thrive on that, John. You enjoy it."

"I did enjoy it. Not anymore." John turned around and Sherlock could see wetness in the corner of his eye as he quickly spun towards the door.

"John," said Sherlock desperately. He moved to the door and put himself in John's way, spreading his arms across the width of the doorway like a spoilt child. "You can't leave. I don't want you to leave."

John sighed and crossed his arms. "I already signed a lease on a new place. I'm moving in right now."

"What did I do, John?" Sherlock said, cursing the stinging tears in his own eyes. "Please tell me and I'll fix it. I'll do whatever you want, please." Sherlock had never begged for anything in his life. Not for money or for food, even though he'd gone without both many times. He was not above begging for John.

"Don't make this harder than it already is," John said softly. "If I…if there was any way that I could stay here, I would. I promise you that. But I've thought about it too many times, and I have to leave."

Sherlock sank to his knees and leaned against the doorjamb. He was already planning his first days without John. Back to cocaine, back to crashing on the floor, back to no toast and no coffee, no one to make tea. Everything that had made him better was gone.

John knelt beside him. "I'll miss you," he choked. "I will miss you and it's going to be so hard…but not as hard as it is to be so close to you and to know that I'll never touch you, never hold you, never kiss you…"

Sherlock eyes fluttered up to meet John's and he understood. He thought he did, anyway. Sherlock swallowed. "John, if that's the only problem, then I can fix it," he said, elated. "I can be whatever you want me to be. Just stay…"

"Sherlock, no. It doesn't work that way. You are who you are and I would never want you to pretend any differently," John said. He stood up. "It's still all fine, you being-whatever it is that you define yourself by. But I'm-I can't just be friends. And that's my flaw. I'm sorry."

John left. Sherlock fell.

…

To be continued…


	43. Wrong Part 2

Summary: "Wrong" Conclusion

Warnings: Angst

…

It was the fourth time he fainted that he realised something was badly wrong. He looked up at the pink and blue ceiling (_Wrong_.) and gripped the sides of his head. Everything in his head seemed to ache, especially his nose. _Should have taken it in solution. This is ridiculous. _He wheezed and drummed his toes inside his shoes. The venue he had chosen was now unfamiliar. His heart was racing and it felt as if he wasn't going to get enough air. _Side effect_, he told himself. _Self is fine. _Was he hallucinating? Was this detox? Had someone brought him to a detox clinic? No. He would have noticed that. Right? Sherlock's fingers began manipulating his phone. He stared at them in detachment, wondering what they thought they were doing.

**Help. Please. **

**SH.**

**That bad? **

**Mycroft Holmes.**

**Obviously.**

**SH.**

**Someone will find you. Then I will pay you a visit.**

**Mycroft Holmes.**

**Okay.**

**SH.**

**Thank you.**

**SH.**

…

Mycroft's employee tracked Sherlock to the basement of a crack house. His eyes were red-rimmed; he was rank and thin and uncooperative. He swatted angrily at the man he'd seen on several occasions, the man his brother had sent under Sherlock's request. But Sherlock had used again since that time and had become agitated. The dark-suited man called for assistance and two other men joined and helped him drag Sherlock up the stairs and out to a waiting car.

…

Five days passed for Sherlock in a rehabilitation centre. The most hated structure in the world. Once he had been "detoxed sufficiently," Mycroft came for a visit. He walked into Sherlock's room (that Sherlock had refused to leave for any other of the centre's so-called amenities) and paused in the doorway. A frown tugged at Mycroft's lips, but otherwise he was perfectly tailored, coiffed, and manicured. He eventually sat in the cushioned chair which was placed at the side of the bed. Sherlock was fully dressed and packed, waiting for Mycroft to sign him out of the treatment centre.

Mycroft broke the silence. "Well, little brother, what was it about this time?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips.

"Tut, tut, Sherlock, you have to talk to me. No matter what your doctors say about your impressive recovery, I haven't been fooled and I won't sign you out. Talk to me, please."

_Arrogant, fat sod… _"I had a lapse in judgment. I'm _fine_." He was terrified, actually _terrified_, that his trembling fingers would give him away.

If Mycroft noticed, and of course he did, he didn't draw any attention to the trembling. "You had a month's-long lapse in judgment, in fact. What set it off?"

Sherlock knew that Mycroft wasn't an idiot (well, not about some things). He couldn't think of any reason other than perverse entertainment for his brother to make him say what had gone wrong. That John had left, hadn't answered his phone, hadn't responded to texts, hadn't even _opened_ a single email. The wound was still raw and terrible and Sherlock didn't know if he had the energy required to talk to Mycroft about it.

Thankfully, Mycroft stepped in. "You've gone through friends before, Sherlock. It's not like you to take it so hard." There was a pause wherein Sherlock was dangerously close to breaking down. Then Mycroft extracted a different response. "It isn't possible that ordinary old John Watson was _that_ important."

A pitcher of water hit the wall and shattered. Mycroft left with a thin grimace on his lips.

…

Another week went by and Sherlock managed to sign himself out with good behaviour. He went immediately back to his flat at Baker Street, getting a big welcome from Mrs. Hudson, hugs included. Trudging up the stairs gave him an unexpected shudder. Entering the flat nearly broke him.

After wandering the rooms aimlessly for a few hours, stopping to sit in windowsills and to lie down in the bathtub, Sherlock finally went to his sofa to stare at the ceiling. A stack of case files sat untouched on the coffee table, gifts from Lestrade. Sherlock's own correspondence with new clients lay on the kitchen table. Daughters missing, priceless heirlooms stolen. He didn't have the energy.

He didn't know how long he laid there, but that wasn't interesting at all. What he would always wonder about was what made John wander up the staircase and into the flat a few days (a couple of days?) later.

They stared, he and John. Sherlock saw him, saw the evidence of what John had been up to since leaving 221 B Baker Street. _Put on weight, obviously been eating takeout regularly. Much more regularly than he did when he was here. Doesn't like the idea of cooking just for one person. Clean, neat fingernails. Working a lot, probably at a new job. Has to keep his hands in good shape. Lab coat, name stitched above the pocket; high profile job. Deeper lines under his eyes, a lot of late nights. Working somewhere outside of his specialty, has to keep up on recent articles. Walks to work now. Shoes are new, but caked in mud and scuffed. New flat is probably on Harley Street, from which he can walk to the oncology clinic. Paraffin stain at the bottom of his coat, meaning he's been doing morphology stains and being careless about it. Why careless?_

"Hi," John said.

"Your pillowcases and your photograph album are sitting on the kitchen table," Sherlock said, staring a hole into the wall. IBut I'm keeping the jumper you left behind. You will never, ever drag it away from me./I

John gestured to the chair. "Can I sit?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I suppose."

John set his medical kit on the floor beside the chair as he sat down. He swallowed so loudly Sherlock heard it. "I'm sorry I didn't return your calls." _Texts or emails_. "I should have. I was…" _A git, an arse, an idiot… _"Afraid."

Sherlock scoffed and finally looked at John. "Afraid of what?"

John scratched his upper arm and looked down at his feet in contemplation. When he looked up, his expression was a mix of repentance and shame. "I was afraid that as soon as I heard your voice, I would beg you to forgive me and let me come back. And I knew that it wouldn't be genuine and that I would probably hurt you all over again."

Sherlock's face was thoroughly unreadable. "Then why are you here?"

John's expression softened. "Because I realised that my life is not that great and that I really need a friend." He laughed. "Joking…no, what I realised is that I like being around you. Being apart was so hard because I kept thinking things like 'Where did this shoe come from? Sherlock would know.' Or, 'Wow, Sherlock would really think that was funny.' Even though you'd probably think it was stupid. And, I would really like to come back, as your friend, and to help pay the rent. Like old times."

"What about your physical attraction to me, John? Doesn't that leave us in the same strait as before?" Sherlock countered.

"Well, I met someone at my new job, actually," John said, before launching into a huge spiel about his new career in oncology. Sherlock wasn't listening. He was too focused on his hatred for whatever man or woman John had met at the surgery.

"…so," John said finally, gaining back Sherlock's attention, "will it be all right if I move back in?"

Sherlock looked at his empty flat and touched his still-sensitive nose. He thought of the nights he'd spent in miserable conditions out in the elements, and the even worse nights he'd spent alone in the flat, not even willing to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water.

He faced John fully, sitting up on the sofa. "You may move back in, John." He thought John's smile was going to rip his face apart. "But I am not helping you bring all of your things back upstairs."

John deflated a little. "Come on, Sherlock, I have about thirty boxes and they're all heavy!"

Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine," he snapped.

John smiled proudly and started down the stairs to get things from the hired lorry, Sherlock skipping across the room after him.


	44. Millstone Part 1

Millstone

Chapter 1 Damages

…

"Did you have any bad dreams last night?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember them this time?"

"No."

"Did the bad dreams wake you from your sleep?"

"Yes."

"How are you? Fine?"

"Fine. Yes."

"You've stopped moving."

"I…help me."

Sherlock sighed very quietly. He assessed the minor task Mycroft was struggling so hard with, a task he'd been fine with the day before. Sherlock aided him in stepping over the side of the bath and sitting down. Mycroft's fine motor skill capacity had seemed to vary from week to week recently. Sherlock wondered if this was the start of an even worse decline for his brother. He was barely able to care for Mycroft at this primitive level of functioning. If Mycroft got worse, there were no means by which their arrangement could continue.

"Can you get the soap?" Sherlock asked, perched on the folding chair he kept in the bathroom.

Mycroft picked up the bottle of liquid soap and stared at the bright green label. After a moment's delay, he offered the bottle to Sherlock.

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock shook his head. "You do it. I'm not going to do it for you any longer."

Mycroft looked tensely between the sponge hanging around the shower pull and back to his brother.

"It's okay. I'll talk you through it," said Sherlock.

…

While Mycroft was sitting at the table eating breakfast, Sherlock got a phone call on his business line.

"Technical support line," he droned. "Toggle the switch, restart and go to the command prompt." A pause. A groan. "Go to Start, type 'c-m-d' and select the only icon that comes up in the search box. Good. Enter 'I-p-c-o-n-f-i-g slash a-l-l' in the prompt and tell me what you see. I see. Enter 'I-7-7 dash 5-7-1.' Now restart. Good. Try not to download any more porn from the Republic of Congo. Thanks for calling."

"Who was it?" asked Mycroft when Sherlock returned to the table.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Some idiot from Birmingham."

"What did he want?"

"_She _crashed her computer with pornographic videos, probably her work computer from the sound of desperation in her voice," said Sherlock. This was Sherlock's third technical support line job. It was easy enough to get hired, since he could diagnose and fix PC issues with minimal information. Keeping the jobs was proving to be a most difficult task, however, as Sherlock could not help himself from berating customers over obvious solutions. He made himself be charming, at least a little, so he would have something to do, and a little income. At least they didn't have to pay rent.

"Good morning, loves," said their mother entering the room. She was dressed for the day and perfectly polished and neat. She smiled at Mycroft and kissed him on the top of his head. "I brought you some more tea, my darling." She filled the cup beside Mycroft's toast.

"Thank you," said Mycroft. "Milk?"

"Of course." She placed a small jug on the table as well.

"Help me?"

Their mother carefully poured the full fat milk into the tea and stirred it for him. "There we go. Thick and creamy, sweetheart."

"Cakes?"

"Mycroft, you're going to get fat," Sherlock said from across the table.

"Sherlock, hush," said Mother. "I'll go see if I can find you some cakes, Mycroft." She left the room.

Sherlock scratched his eyebrow. "Are you going to do anything today?" he asked.

Mycroft shrugged and took a sip of tea. "Watch telly."

"You don't want to try one of your puzzles?" Sherlock asked, referring to the jigsaw puzzles made up of very large pieces, recommended for children of age 4-5.

"No," said Mycroft, rigidly. Sherlock recalled the last puzzle being swept off the table and kicked around on the floor. Maybe it was for the best.

"Fine, but you know you have to do your exercises," Sherlock insisted.

"Mummy said I don't have to," Mycroft protested.

Sherlock frowned. "I see."

Mother returned with a box of Jaffa cakes. "You like these, don't you, Mycroft, love?"

Mycroft nodded enthusiastically. "Yes."

"Mother, could I speak with you?" asked Sherlock, watching as she set the package on the table with the rest of Mycroft's breakfast.

"Of course, Sherlock," said Mother. "What is it?"

"Come with me," Sherlock implored, wanting to speak to her in private.

She followed him into the living room. "What's the matter, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Mother, you can't tell him he doesn't need to do the exercises," Sherlock said. "If nothing else, I'm trying to make sure his mind doesn't deteriorate any further, and the psychiatrist said they might even help him."

Mother crossed her arms, scowling at her youngest son. "Sherlock, your brother hates doing all that writing. It frustrates him. Last week he almost tore the curtains from the windows over it."

"It's because you let him get away with things!" Sherlock growled. "You don't challenge him, and you won't let him challenge himself. And if your curtains are what you are most worried about-"

"It's not the curtains, Sherlock. Trying to do that hard work distresses him," she said, her expression begging for sympathy. "We almost lost him because of that-that hobby of yours, Sherlock. And I am only trying to ensure that he is happy and well cared for."

Sherlock winced inwardly as his mother's comments struck him deeply. It was bad enough he blamed himself for the attack that made Mycroft this way. When Mother started in on him about it, Sherlock felt cut in half. Mycroft had been comatose for two weeks following the bullet wound to his temple. When he'd woken, it had been a short-lived relief, ending when Mycroft spoke. He had no sense about what had happened, or even how to answer concise questions. His speech was distorted, and he could scarcely hold even a spoon between his fingers. After speech therapy, physical therapy and a few stablising medications, he seemed to improve for a short while. However, after being home for only a few days, he had had a complete reversal and never recovered his former state.

Sherlock took all of the blame. How could he not? Mycroft had been injured trying to protect him, after all. He had been an up and comer in the political sphere, and Sherlock had secretly respected him. Seeing his brilliant, sharp brother reduced to a child's (occasionally an infant's) mind was too great a burden for Sherlock, and he decided that he would take charge of Mycroft until he recovered, or until he would require professional care. Sherlock's ambition to move to London to go to college would have to wait.

"Don't make him do the exercises if he doesn't want to," Mother said. "Just let him do as he pleases. We will take care of him, won't we, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Yes, Mother. We will take care of him."


	45. Millstone Part 2

Millstone

Chapter 2: Complications

…

Mycroft came into Sherlock's study in the afternoon. "Let's go."

Sherlock looked up from his manuscript. "Where are we going?"

"The park."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Mycroft had not been interested in going anywhere outside the house and grounds for weeks. "What are we going to do at the park, Mycroft?" he asked.

"I want to look," said Mycroft, a little desperately.

Sherlock nodded. "That's fine. Yes, we could do that." Sherlock picked up his manuscript and tucked it into an old satchel before checking on Mycroft. After getting Mycroft out of his lace-up shoes and into trainers and bundling him up for the cold weather, Sherlock spoke to Mother and they left.

The two men walked down the grassy hill to the park in the valley. Sherlock held Mycroft's hand as they trekked down, trying to make sure he wouldn't tumble downhill and get hurt. Mycroft's balance wasn't what it used to be.

Mycroft chose to sit on an iron bench facing the pond. Sherlock sat beside him, folding his hands at the back of his neck and leaning against the back rest. After a few moments, Sherlock brought out his manuscript on hand gestures and suicide proclivity and resumed his editing. Since the accident, Mycroft constantly wanted to stare at landscapes. Most days he would watch nature shows on television, or sit at the window of their mother's bedroom and stare out for hours. Mycroft referred to it as "looking." This was the first day in a long time that he had requested to actually go outside to do it.

Sherlock received a few calls on his business line while they enjoyed the afternoon. Mycroft never said a word, just stared at the water and the hills beyond. When the sky began to darken, Mycroft stood up and began walking back towards the house. Sherlock packed away his manuscript (it was getting too dark to work on it anyway) and followed his brother home. It had been a good day for them, not like last Wednesday.

…

"_Mycroft, please just put these clothes on. Or these. Or any of them, I don't care!"_

_Mycroft swept all the clothes onto the floor, angrily. Right afterwards, he picked them up one at a time and folded them clumsily._

_Sherlock stared at his brother, who was still in his bloody dressing gown at noon. "Mycroft, do whatever you want. I haven't the strength to argue with you on this anymore."_

…

Sherlock woke up in the night to a thumping sound. He was instantly awake, never one to come awake gradually or with any manner of slow faculties. He turned on his bedside lamp and threw his legs over the side of the bed. The thumping was subtle, but to Sherlock, it clearly originated from Mycroft's bedroom two doors down. He tried speculating what Mycroft could be doing so late at night when the rest of the house was asleep. It sounded as if he were stomping in some kind of tantrum, or perhaps banging on the floor with his fists.

Sherlock pulled his dressing gown on over his pyjamas and walked down the hall to Mycroft's door. He knocked first, then opened the door and went inside. Sherlock heard the sound of wheezing and immediately turned on the lights. Mycroft was on his back on the floor, kicking his heels against the carpet. Sherlock rushed to his side, his gaze sweeping across him to determine what was wrong. Mycroft was struggling to take in breaths, and kept his stare fixed on the ceiling. Sherlock called for an ambulance.

…

While Mother followed in her car, Sherlock stayed right by his brother's side throughout the ambulance ride to the hospital and as Mycroft was assigned a room and checked over. Sherlock verbally eviscerated a nurse who jabbed an IV into Mycroft's hand, eliciting a whimper of pain. The brothers settled in while waiting for the results of the tests.

Mother soon arrived. She took in the sight of her son breathing into an oxygen mask and looking desperately pale. "Oh, Mycroft, my baby," She went to his side and hugged him awkwardly. "I love you, my darling." She stroked his hair and looked him over.

Mycroft had a difficult time shifting the breathing mask momentarily. "I love you, Mummy," he said quietly, still struggling to breathe.

"Has anyone said what's wrong?" asked Mother of Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "Could be a simple case of bronchitis. But, unlikely because of the absence of other symptoms. They've taken a chest X-ray and given a spirometry test. One doctor mentioned that it could be severe asthma or COPD."

Mother unfolded her embroidered handkerchief and used it to gently wipe away the sweat on Mycroft's face. "You'll be fine, Mycroft. Just keep breathing for Mummy."

…

_The first week Mycroft was comatose, Sherlock could almost always be found keeping a bedside vigil. He read Baudelaire aloud to his brother, who had always been fond of what Sherlock thought to be overly emotional works of prose and poetry. Regardless, Sherlock dutifully read and talked about some of Mycroft's favourite things._

_At the start of the second week, Sherlock had become nearly consumed by his own emotions. He felt an enveloping rage at his brother for getting in the way of the bullet, for hiding away in his coma, for all his pretensions. Secondary to his rage was a spasming sense of shame at his role in the whole matter. Sherlock kept himself away from the hospital that second week, but hurried back as soon as there was news that Mycroft was waking._

…

Mycroft's doctor spoke candidly with Sherlock and their mother. It was clear that with no medical training on the part of anyone in the household, and with Mycroft's worsening condition, a live-in nurse should be brought on staff. Mycroft had to stay in hospital until the following evening and was given a few medications and an emergency inhaler.

On the way home, he stared out the car window at the speeding hills and trees.

…

After three days of interviewing nurses, Mother came to the conclusion that they were all incompetent. None of them were good enough for her boy. So, she set about interviewing a very select group of doctors from the recommendations of friends and an advertisement for curriculum vitae. Sherlock asked to be left out of the interviewing until it came to the point of serious consideration. He happened to be walking by the study on that Thursday when Mother was questioning the very last candidate.

"So, I see that you're a doctor _and _a soldier. How impressive," said Mother.

Sherlock listened at the door.

"Thank you. Yes, that's correct."

"Tell me about your psychiatric internship."

"Well, let's see, I worked for eight months at an intensive psych clinic in Southampton. Worked with all the regular cases-suicide attempts, addicts, brain traumas, schizophrenia."

"And you've written some papers on pulmonary medicine, as well."

"Yes, sort of a side interest. My main one being field surgery."

Mother made a noise of approval. "Dr. Watson, I'd like you to meet someone. Sherlock, won't you join us?"

Sherlock flinched. _How did she know I was here?_

He entered the room and appraised the man seated across from his mother. The young doctor stood and politely extended his hand when Sherlock was within reach.

Sherlock shook his hand. "Battle-field medicine, you say? All these qualifications, and you're unable to find a job. You've been home from the war-Afghanistan, was it, definitely was-for eight months now, and you're unable to find a job? You're unable to afford London on your pension, so what are you doing here in Sussex? Must have relatives nearby, but that is clearly not working out, or else you wouldn't be looking for a live-in job. The most interesting fact is the reason you were unable to find work in London. Clearly, you were invalided home, otherwise you would have stayed on the battlefields until they dragged you away. You list yourself on your CV as a soldier, before a doctor. It defines you, the passionate battle, the unpredictability of war. You found work for a short time when you were in London, but it couldn't hold your attention. You lost your temper a few times, got sacked. Money ran out, and some estranged family member took you in. That's only been going on for two weeks and already you're grasping at straws to find new arrangements." He paused. The doctor was staring at him, mouth agape. "If Mycroft likes him, hire him," Sherlock said to Mother.

Dr. Watson found his voice. "Thank you. And, if I can just say-that was amazing. How did you do that?"

Mother rolled her eyes. "He's just showing off, doctor. Come, and I will introduce you to my good son."

Sherlock stiffened and turned towards the bookshelf. As soon as this doctor was settled in, Sherlock would extricate himself from Sussex for good.


	46. Millstone Part 3

Millstone

Chapter 2 Care

Sherlock was in his study, looking over his collection of suicide photographs when a confident knock came at his door. "Come in," he said, not looking up from a scene of a young woman with rope burns around her throat.

John Watson entered the room, obviously looking to Sherlock for assistance with something. "Sorry to bother you, um, Sherlock, was it? I think I might need your help for a sec."

Sherlock turned to face him. "Ah, Dr. Watson, anything you need, I am at your service." The quicker the man could be shown the ropes, the sooner Sherlock could start to pack.

"John, please. I've just met your brother, and your mother would like me to go ahead and give him a routine physical exam," said John. "Only, he's a bit apprehensive and asked if you would come in with us."

Sherlock immediately got to his feet. "Yes, of course," he said, no longer putting on an act for John's sake.

Sherlock followed John into one of the guest rooms which had been fashioned into a sick bay after it was decided that Mycroft would need full-time medical care. Mycroft was sat upon a cushioned table, wearing only his shirt and pants.

Sherlock went to stand beside him. "So, you've met Dr. Watson? Do you like him, Mycroft?"

Mycroft smiled. "Yes. He's very nice."

Sherlock nodded. "So what's there to worry about, then?"

Mycroft shrugged, studying his hands.

"Right, okay," said John. "I'm just going to start by checking your senses." He produced a tuning fork from his medical bag and did a formal test, asking Mycroft when he could no longer hear the vibrations after John had tapped it.

Following this, John tested Mycroft's eyesight, his sense of smell (by far Mycroft's favourite test, since it involved a little satchel of lavender), and his reflexes. John had Mycroft walk in straight lines, on his heels and on his toes. He checked his femoral, radial, and carotid pulses, and listened to his breathing. After listening through his stethoscope, John gave Mycroft a few more breathing tests to ensure that he had all the information on his patient's condition.

John wrote a few notes on his pad and then prepared a blood pressure cuff around Mycroft's upper arm.

"Be careful," Sherlock said sternly. "Not too tight."

"Of course not," said John. "I have done this a few times before."

Mycroft wasn't bothered by the blood pressure testing. However, when John explained that he would be taking a blood sample, Mycroft drew up into himself and scooted back on the table.

"I don't want to do this part," he said.

John frowned. "It's just a tiny, tiny drop or two. It'll only hurt for a second, and then afterwards, maybe you can go and watch telly?" John looked at Sherlock for approval.

"Mycroft, why don't you tell me about the ducks at the pond the other day. What were they doing?" asked Sherlock.

Mycroft turned to his brother. He had to think for a moment before answering. "They swam. And they made noise."

Sherlock nodded, seemingly fascinated. "And what's the name of the sound that a duck makes?"

John swabbed Mycroft's finger with a bit of rubbing alcohol.

"I…don't remember," said Mycroft.

"But you know it," said Sherlock. "You know the sound they make."

Mycroft shook his head. "I can't see it."

"Well then, what else did we see that day?"

"The forest."

"And what was in the forest?"

"Trees and plants. Probably animals."

John pricked Mycroft's finger and collected a small amount of blood on a glass strip.

"How do you know there were animals? We didn't see any."

"Because that's where animals live," answered Mycroft. His attention turned back to John as the doctor put a tan plaster on his finger.

John placed the glass strip in a holding container. "Okay, you're all done Mycroft. Very good job, I know all this must have been a little tedious…um, boring."

Sherlock helped Mycroft down from the table. "All right. Skip on, go and do whatever you were doing before," he said.

Mycroft slowly left the room, seeming to have a little trouble balancing on his way out.

"Thanks," said John to Sherlock. "Couldn't have got through that without you."

"You're very patient," said Sherlock. "I didn't expect that, given your history of annoyed outbursts."

John cleaned the area and packed away his things while they talked. "Some patients are difficult on purpose because they're obnoxious. Your brother is a bit difficult, but he isn't trying to be. He can't help it."

Sherlock burned a little at John's last sentence. "He wasn't always this way," he snapped. "My brother was more brilliant than you could have imagined. More brilliant even than I."

John nodded, soberly. "The way your mother speaks of him, I'd never have known that. But I saw the scar under his hair. Before that, I had guessed autism or possibly retardation."

Sherlock nodded. "He's very sensitive. He can't understand a lot of things that he used to. His coordination is getting worse and worse all the time. How long would you give him before he needs medical implements for walking and eating?"

John contemplated for a moment, taking a breath through his teeth. "I don't know. I'd have to watch him for about a month before I could make a judgement like that."

"Of course," said Sherlock. "Well, Dr. Watson, I shall be in my study. I hope that you will make yourself at home here. Mother is no doubt preparing dinner for the household now. Good evening."

Sherlock returned to his study and rubbed his face tiredly. He hoped that Mycroft would take to John. The young doctor was very understanding and careful with him. Sherlock also hoped the doctor's obvious compassion would lead him to care for Mycroft as a person, as well as a patient.


End file.
